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Poems  of  the  Plains 

AND 

Songs  of  the  Solitudes 


TOGETHER    WITH 


THE  RHYME  OF  THE  BORDER  WAR" 


THOMAS  BROWER  PEACOCK 

"lUTHOR    OF  "the    KHYMF.    OF   THF,    BORDER    WAR,"  "  THE    VENDETTA,    AND 
OTHER    I'OEMS,"  ETC.,  ETC. 


THIRD  EDITION.     REVISED 


WITH    BIOGRAPHICAL    SKETCH    OF   THE    AUTHOR    AND    CRITICAL  REMARKS  ON 
HIS    POEMS    1!V 

Prof.  THOMAS  DANLEIGH  SUPLEE,  A.M.,  Ph.D. 


NEW    YORK    AND    LOND" 'N 

G.    P.    PUTNAM'S     SONS 

S^be  '*inuhtrbothcr  l-lrtss 

1889 


copyright 

By  Thomas  Brower  Peacock 

1889 

entered  at  stationers'  hall,  london 

By  Thomas  Brower  Peacock 
all  rights  reserved  by  the  author 


Press  of 

G.  p.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York 


V'>?65  y- 


TO  THE  POETS. 

O  minstrel  of  the  golden  tongue, 

0  minstrel  of  the  mystic  heart, 

This  gift  accept — these  songs  I  've  sung- 
To  you  their  soul  I  would  impart. 
From  Homer  to  the  lowliest  son 
Who  ever  dared  his  voice  to  raise, 

1  dedicate  to  each  fond  one 
These  Western  border  minstrel  lays. 


Away,  my  poems  of  the  plains, 

Go,  mingle  with  the  busy  throng  ; 
Whatever  be  your  fate,  remains 

This  truth  :  my  passion  is  for  song. 
I  sing  of  solitudes  unending — 

The  solitudes  that  ever  blight 
Earth-life — that  mystery  extending 

'Round  knowledge,  with  its  walls  of  night. 


M53:!i943 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

Preface  by  Thomas  Danleigh  Supl^e,  A.M.,  Ph.D.  ix 

,  The  Author's  Preface xxiii 

Kit  Carson 3 

Spirit  Whisperings 4 

.  The  Kansas  Indian's  Lament 8 

^  •    Shakespeare  and  Byron n 

Beyond 12 

,^The  Doomed  Ship  "Atlantic"         ....  13 

Man 20 

y  Sonnet  to  Matthew  Arnold 21 

Capital  and  Labor 21 

^^^  The  Close  OF  Day 22 

yYviR  Poet's  Reverie   .        .        .        .        .        .        .23 

_^The  Evil  Spirit  of  the  Plains          ....  24 

^^^  The  Bandit  Chief 25 

i^OROLiNDA  Blake 28 

y  Sonnet  to  Milton 29 

A  Dream 30 

In  Memory 32 

To  My  Wife 32 

Richard  Realf  . 33 

Beautiful  Woman 34 

V 


vi  Contents. 

PAGE 

-The  Outlaw 34 

The  Strikers 38 

Morning 40 

Evening 41 

The  City  of  the  Dead .42 

Sonnet  to  Samuel  J.  Tilden 44 

United,  though  Death  Parted        ....  45 

Apotheosis 50 

The  Maniac 51 

^.The  Silent  Hero — Grant 52 

Forgive  This  Tear 55 

Little  Vidie 56 

To  Little  Aubrey 57 

To  Ida 57 

Reverie 59 

Love 62 

A  Secret  of  the  Sea 63 

The  Child  to  Its  Mother 64 

Admonished 65 

On  the  Moonlit  Wave 67 

A  Beautiful  Mystery 68 

Vennova 69 

The  Chicago  Fire 71 

The  Restless  Wanderer 74 

The  Haunted  Lake 80 

Arion 85 

Bethlehem's  Star 86 

False  Ginevra 87 

Unseen 87 

Christ's  Love 87 


Contents.  vii 

PAGE 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  an  Infant    ....  88 

/"  It  is  I,  BE  not  Afraid  !" 89 

Sonnet  to  Richard  Henry  Stoddard      ...  90 

My  Lost  Gem Qi 

In  Memory  of  Thomas  Wiltjam  Peacock         .        .  92 

More  Light 93 

The  Sunset  in  Victory 93 

Cruel,  Cruel  Death 94 

Sonnet  to  Dr.  Oliver  W.  Holmes    ....  96 

Spring 97 

Autumn 9^ 

Departed ^o^ 

Futurity ^^o 

The  Hall  of  Valhalla loi 

Asleep ^^^ 

Improvised ^^3 

In  Memory  of  Eugene  Cole io4 

Murder ^^5 

The  Chase 106 

The  Prayer  of  the  Universe 108 

Egeria ^^^ 

Purity ^^^ 

Drifting •        •        •        •  m 

Escaped •        •        -"S 

Proof  OF  Man's  Immortality    .        .        .        •        •  n? 

The  Decree  of  Fate 1^9 

To  A  Fair  One 120 

Angel  Voices      .        » 121 

Man's  Limited  Knowledge 122 

Tropical ^^3 


viii  Contents. 

PAGE 

Rest 125 

A  Vision 125 

Poetry '      .         .        .         .127 

The  Hero 128 

Will  You  Remember  Me  ? 129 

Irene   ..........  130 

Metaphysical 131 

Time's  Momentous  Flight 132 

True  Friends 133 

To  The  Y.  L.  M.  S.  of  Topeka  .        .        ,        .133 

The  Garden  of  the  Mind 134 

Death  and  Immortality 134 

In  a  Weary  Land .  135 

The  Vendetta 137 

The  Star  of  the  East 187 

The  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War     ....  207 
Extracts  from  Comments  of  Eminent  Critics  and 

Criticisms  of  the  Press       ....        *  307 


PREFACE. 

BY  THOMAS  DANLEIGH  SUPL^E,  A.M.,  PH.D. 

The  statement  will  pass  without  challenge,  I  think, 
that  the  West  has  not  produced  many  great  poets. 
Excepting  a  few  whose  names  might  easily  be  count- 
ed upon  the  fingers  of  a  single  hand,  the  poets  have 
hailed  from  the  States  described  as  "  Original." 
The  reason  of  this,  I  take  it,  is  pretty  nearly  the 
same  as  that  which  is  given  for  the  scarcity  of  al- 
most all  kinds  of  literature  in  the  earlier  periods  of 
American  history.  Just  as  the  Puritans  and  their 
contemporaries  were  occupied  with  problems  un- 
favorable to  the  successful  cultivation  of  what  we 
term  the  literary  habit,  so  the  pioneers  of  the  un- 
conquered  West,  and  their  immediate  descendants, 
have  found  but  little  leisure  for  writing  or  even 
reading  poetry.  The  Sierras  have  their  solitary 
bard  in  Joaquin  Miller,  and  the  adjacent  wilds  may 
only  claim  Bret  Harte.  The  great  middle  West  is 
still  more  barren.  Though  many  birds  have  made 
its  wonderful  prairie  stretches  vocal  with  strains 
of  sweetest  melody,  but  few  dreaming  poets  have 
been  there  to  echo  their  notes.  Themes  modest 
and  lofty  have  not  been  wanting.  Nature  is  simple 
and  winning,  grand  and  thrilling,  picturesque  and 


X  Preface, 

inspiring,  but  men  have  either  not  been  impressed 
with  these  qualities  in  their  surroundings,  or  they 
have  lacked  the  power  to  properly  interpret  them. 

What  the  world  expects  of  the  Western  poet  is 
rather  vaguely  understood,  and  the  world  will  prob- 
ably never  be  persuaded  that  the  true  prophet  has 
arisen  until  it  discovers  in  him  some  of  the  qualities 
of  its  somewhat  sensational  ideal.  It  expects  this 
ideal  poet  to  be  the  peculiar  product  of  the  region 
whose  apostle  he  is  to  be.  His  poetry  is  to  contain 
bold  and  dashing  strokes,  which  shall  be  impressive, 
without  exacting  too  much  suspicion  of  fire  without 
heat,  or  thunder  without  lightning.  It  awaits  a 
master  in  the  art  of  stimulating,  who  is  something 
more  than  a  journeyman  artist  at  delineating.  In 
short,  the  pictured  ideal  must  be  worthy  of  a  big 
country,  and  some  wonderful  geographical  details, 
equal  to  the  task  of  doing  full  justice  to  the  enter- 
prise, generosity  and  "  bigness  "  which  are  invari- 
ably associated  with  the  West. 

That  there  is  a  strong  flavor  of  unreasonable- 
ness in  much  of  this  expectation,  needs  not  be  in- 
sisted upon.  Let  us  rather  expect  a  man  strongly 
imbued  with  Western  sympathies,  to  the  manor 
born,  and  unquestionably  able  to  picture  or  inter- 
pret the  manor, — a  man  who  needs  not  to  be  seated 
upon  high  mountains  in  order  to  be  inspired  to 
utter  big  thoughts,  but  who  having  lived  under  the 
brows  of  the  eternal  hills  is  so  overwhelmed  with 
their  immense  suggestions,  that  his  thoughts  are 
equally  grand  in  inspiring  mental  pictures,  lifting 


Preface.  xi 

you,  as  do  the  mountains,  into  a  higher  atmosphere 
of  serenity  and  purity. 

"  Great  mountains  lift  the  lowlands  on  their  sides." 

Such  a  man  will  lend  a  voice  to  the  hills, 
catch  the  music  of  the  streams,  paint  the  sweet 
flowers  of  the  prairies,  and  the  radiant  clouds  in 
the  skies  above  them,  measure  nature's  strength, 
and  praise  her  bounty,  and  men  will  crown  him 
poet. 

Let  us  see  what  there  is  in  the  life,  the  songs,  and 
estimates  of  the  critics  of  our  author  to  warrant  the 
belief  that  he  is  entitled  to  the  distinction  of  being, 
what  his  critics  claim  him  to  be,  the  poet  laureate 
of  the  West. 

Mr.  Peacock  accomplishes  what  few  of  the  world's 
living  poets  are  capable  of  doing,  and  that  is  this,  he 
frequently  rises  to  the  sublime. 

In  his  later  poems,  particularly,  virility  is  a  no- 
ticeable merit — that  fire  and  vigor  rare  in  the  poetry 
of  every  age. 

Thomas  Brower  Peacock  was  born  on  the  i6th 
day  of  April,  185..,  at  Cambridge,  Guernsey  County, 
Ohio.  He  was  the  third  son  and  the  fourth  child 
in  a  family  of  seven  children,  of  whom  four  were 
sons  and  three  were  daughters.  His  father's  name 
was  Thomas  William  Peacock,  a  man  highly  es- 
teemed in  Ohio,  as  an  able  editor  of  several  papers, 
and  the  president  of  a  railroad.  Mr.  Peacock  en- 
joys the  proud  distinction  of  being  able  to  trace  his 
ancestry  back  to  King  William  of  Holland,  and  is 


xii  Preface, 

one  of  the  thousand  heirs  to  the  Trinity  Church 
property  in  New  York  City,  commonly  known  as 
the  Anneke  Jans  estate.  His  father's  father  was  a 
native  of  Edinburgh,  Scotland,  and  among  his  rela- 
tives in  that  connection,  he  numbers  a  Lord  and 
Lady  Peacock.  The  name  "  Peacock  "  originated 
long  ago  from  the  "  Pea  Mountains  "  in  Scotland, 
where  peacocks  were  formerly  found  in  large  num- 
bers. Mr.  Peacock  is  also  related,  though  distantly, 
to  Thomas  Love  Peacock,  the  intimate  friend  of  the 
unfortunate  Shelley. 

His  mother's  maiden  name  was  Naomi  Carson, 
and  her  parents  were  among  the  earliest  settlers  of 
Guernsey  Co.,  Ohio. 

Mr.  Peacock's  boyhood  was  comparatively  une- 
ventful. In  his  seventh  year  the  family  moved  to 
a  farm  about  a  mile  east  of  Cambridge,  where  they 
resided  two  years,  his  father,  in  the  meantime,  edit- 
ing the  Cambridge  Jeffersonian,  a  paper  still  in  ex- 
istence. After  disposing  of  this  paper,  his  father 
removed  to  Zanesville,  Muskingum  Co.,  Ohio,  where 
he  purchased  the  leading  Democratic  paper  of  that 
city,  the  Zanesville  Aurora.  He  edited  this  paper 
for  four  years,  his  son  Thomas,  then  a  boy  in  his 
teens,  carrying  the  papers  to  subscribers  through 
the  city. 

When  his  father  sold  the  farm  near  Cambridge 
the  boy  cried  bitterly,  not  only  because  he  was 
greatly  attached  to  the  place,  but  also  by  reason  of 
a  very  remarkable  attachment  which  he  had  formed 
for   three  purely  imaginary  friends,  whom  he  had 


Preface.  xiii 

named  "  Adixon,"  "  Frawdixon,"  and  "Sandborn." 
His  uncle,  F.  M.  Carson,  wrote  a  little  book  con- 
cerning these  fancied  friends,  who  were  quite  as 
real  to  the  boy  as  any  of  his  friends  of  flesh  and 
blood.  This  uncle  was  a  superior  man,  some  time 
editor  of  the  Wheeling  Ititelligencer,  He  died  at 
the  age  of  twenty-seven. 

Mr.  Peacock's  education  was  mainly  obtained  at 
Zanesville,  Ohio.  From  this  place  the  family  re- 
moved to  Dresden,  Ohio,  where  the  father  and  the 
son  together  edited  the  Monitor.  To  this  paper 
the  boy  contributed  three  romances  in  prose,  and  a 
number  of  small  poems. 

In  the  year  1870,  the  young  man  caught  the 
Texas  fever,  from  reading  the  glowing  accounts  of 
it  written  in  the  shape  of  advertising  pamphlets, 
and  also  from  letters  received  from  persons  living 
there,  and  emigrated  to  the  southwestern  wilds. 
During  the  two  years  that  Mr.  Peacock  remained 
in  Texas,  he  taught  school  for  one  year,  and  kept  a 
hotel  during  the  other  year,  entertaining,  among 
other  characters,  "Cole  Younger,"  "Wild  Bill," 
and  "Jesse  James," — men  whose  patronage  was 
not  solicited  by  the  host,  and  rarely  covered  more 
than  a  single  night. 

While  in  Texas,  Mr.  Peacock  met  with  a  number 
of  adventures.  In  an  encounter  between  some 
Union  soldiers  and  a  force  of  the  so-called  "  Ku- 
Klux,"  he  was  wounded,  and  laid  up  for  six  weeks. 
He  refers  to  this  incident  in  his  "  Rhyme  of  the 
Border  War,"  when  he  says  : 


xiv  Preface. 

"  I  sympathize  with  those  who  fall 
Down  stricken  by  the  deadly  ball, 
For  I  have  felt  the  cruel  thing 
Tear  through  my  flesh  with  angry  sting." 

He  moved  to  Kansas,  his  adopted  State,  in  1872, 
making  the  trip  overland,  a  distance  of  eight 
hundred  miles,  by  wagon  team.  He  first  settled  at 
Independence,  and  two  years  afterwards  removed 
to  the  city  of  Topeka,  where  he  has  resided  for  the 
last  thirteen  years.  For  eight  years  he  was  associate 
editor  of  the  Kansas  Democrat. 

Mr.  Peacock's  ''  Star  of  the  East  "  was  written 
in  Zanesville,  Ohio,  at  the  age  of  sixteen.  His 
"  Vendetta  "  and  some  minor  poems  were  written 
in  Texas.  "The  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War," 
"  The  Doomed  Ship  Atlantic,"  and  his  later  poems 
have  been  written  in  Kansas. 

Mr.  Peacock  was  married  June  17,  1880,  to  Miss 
Ida  E.  Eckert,  the  second  daughter  of  Daniel  S. 
Eckert,  a  retired  farmer.  His  wife  is  a  woman  of 
fine  literary  taste. 

The  first  volume  of  poems  published  by  Mr. 
Peacock  was  a  very  modest  little  book  of  verses 
issued  in  1872.  It  was  so  liberally  criticised  and 
favorably  noticed  by  the  press  that  the  author 
was  encouraged  to  publish  a  larger  volume  in  1876, 
containing  many  of  the  old  poems  revised,  together 
with  many  new  verses.  This  second  edition  was  also 
favorably  received  and  very  extensively  noticed. 
"The  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War"  was  published 
by  G.  W.  Carleton  &  Co.,  New  York  City,  in  1880, 


Preface.  xv 

The  new  volume,  "  Poems  of  the  Plains  and 
Songs  of  the  Solitudes,"  includes  the  former  publi- 
cations revised,  and  a  large  number  of  new  ones  for 
the  first  time  published. 

In  form,  Mr.  Peacock's  poetry  in  not  conven- 
tional. One  of  the  first  and  strongest  impressions 
which  one  gets  from  its  perusal,  is  a  certain  free- 
dom from  restraint  of  regulation  poetry  which  is 
everywhere  apparent.  There  is  relaxation  from 
those  cast-iron  rules  pertaining  to  metre  and  now 
and  then  to  rhyme  which  grace  the  concluding  pages 
of  text-books  of  grammar  and  composition.  The 
stream  of  his  diction  glides  at  its  own  sweet  will, 
and  is  quiet  or  tempestuous,  according  to  its  bur- 
den of  thought — but  always  free  from  the  trammels 
of  canonical  expression. 

In  the  matter  of  his  verse  Mr.  Peacock  is  a 
poet  in  one  peculiar  sense  that  is  too  much  over- 
looked in  the  qualifications  of  the  poet  in  these  later 
days.  He  is  preeminently  imaginative — a  seer  of 
visions,  a  dreamer  of  dreams,  a  creator  of  pictures, 
and  whether  it  be  vision,  or  dream,  or  picture,  he 
sees,  and  dreams,  and  creates  in  a  way  that  is  singu- 
larly imaginative.  The  world  has  been  straying  far 
from  the  path  of  genuine  poetry  of  late.  We  are 
not  ashamed  to  say  that  we  never  were  converted 
to  these  heretical  ways  of  thinking,  and  greatly  pre- 
fer the  poetry  written  for  our  reading  shall  not  be  a 
homily,  a  system  of  philosophy,  or  subtle  analysis 
of  human  character, — but  rather  the  story  of  what 
one  has  seen  who  has  soared  far  into  the  regions  of 


xvi  Preface. 

the  fanciful.  Something  startling  and  unusual,  even 
a  little  bit  unreal  if  you  please,  but  new,  fresh, 
strange,  imaginative,  and  picturesque.  Walter  Scott, 
or  some  one  with  gifts  allied  to  his,  will  be  enjoyed 
again  when  literary  taste  is  corrected,  and  men  dare 
to  fling  off  the  chains  of  mock  admiration  by  which 
they  are  bound.  The  Platos  will  then  stick  to  prose. 
A  truce  to  them  now.  Let  us,  when  we  want 
poetry,  get  out  of  the  regions  of  too  fine  discus- 
sions, of  keen  analysis,  and  tiresome  definition,  and 
enter  the  broad,  open  fields,  and  clear  skies,  to  rest 
our  jaded  and  tortured  minds,  renew  our  exhausted 
patience,  and  once  more  unaffectedly  enjoy  the 
pleasures  of  the  imagination. 

Mr.  Peacock  is  essentially  romantic,  and  is  never 
more  thoroughly  inspired  than  when  singing  the 
praises  of  true  woman.  Here,  for  instance,  is  a 
lyric  of  love,  sung  by  one  of  his  characters,  which 
Owen  Meredith  might  be  proud  to  claim  : 

-  "  Give  Heaven  the  good,  and  Hell  the  bad, 

Yield  me  the  lovely  and  the  fair. 

For  though  my  heart  be  sick  and  sad, 

A  girl's  sweet  face  dispels  my  care. 

Drink,  drink,  the  rosy,  sparkling  wine. 

To  woman,  lovely  and  divine. 

"  O  what  's  the  poet's  proudest  wreaths. 
To  sweeter  wreaths  of  woman's  arms 
Encircling  you  when  beauty  breathes 

Her  true  love,  gemm'd  by  all  her  charms  ! 


Preface,  xvii 

Then  drink  the  rosy,  sparkling  wine, 
To  woman,  lovely  and  divine. 

"  Then  drain  the  foaming,  sparkling  glass. 
To  her  who  brings  such  peace  and  bliss, 
Whose  tender  eyes  we  cannot  pass, 
Without  we  long  to  woo  and  kiss. 
Drink,  drink,  the  rosy,  sparkling  wine. 
To  woman,  lovely  and  divine." 

There  is  no  lack  of  love-making  in  "The  Rhyme 
of  the  Border  War,"  but  the  passion  is  tender,  not- 
withstanding it  beats  and  throbs  in  the  breasts  of 
rough  men  in  rough  times. 

To  afford  a  taste  of  Mr.  Peacock's  quality  by 
quotation  would  require  space  which  the  pre- 
scribed limits  of  a  preface  do  not  afford.  Fre- 
quently there  is  a  peculiar  beauty  in  single  lines 
and  stanzas.     Here  is  one  rosary  of  thoughts  : 

"God  is  not  far  from  him  who  prays." 

"Great  minds  honor  worth  and  brain." 

"Who  never  doubted  never  thought." 

"  Great  men  are  numbered  by  no  year." 

"  Two  souls  are  in  the  poet's  breast." 

"  The  stars  are  tears  that  God  once  wept." 

"  Christ's  life  's  a  poem  more  sublime 
Than  any  given  unto  rhyme." 


xviii  Preface. 

"  A  thousand  poems  unexpressed 
May  be  within  the  poet's  breast, 
Which  angels  read  that  wander  by, 
Sweet  pilgrims  from  beyond  the  sky." 

"  Greater  than  kings,  with  kingdoms  strong, 
Are  the  mighty  kings  of  song." 

"  Greater  than  conqueror  or  king. 
The  Thinker  on  his  throne  of  Thought 

A  sceptre  wields, — puissant  thing — 
By  which  mutations  great  are  wrought." 

"  The  dew-drop  on  yon  fragrant  flower 
May  be  the  tear  of  some  sweet  star, 

That  weeps  for  joy  that  God's  great  power 
Shields  all  creation  near  and  far." 

"  Battle  stamps  his  bloody  feet  !  " 

"  Though  now  and  then  a  moment  seen. 
The  strange  wild  Indian  of  the  plain. 

His  star  is  setting  low  between 
The  Rocky  Mountains  and  the  main. 

His  fate  and  the  buffalo's  are  one — 
They  gather  to  the  setting  sun." 

"  The  East  with  great  omnipotent  power 
Burns  with  the  breath  of  God  this  hour." 

"  And  like  those  sweet  immortal  flowers. 
True  woman's  love  grows  on  sublime — 

Like  them  it  soars  o'er  mortal  hours — 
It  lives  beyond  the  bounds  of  time  !  " 


Preface.  xix 

"  God  secretes  in  places  lone  and  still 

The  rarest  products  of  His  will  ; 
For  contact  with  the  world  disarms 

His  fairest  flowers  of  half  their  charms." 

Mr.  Peacock  has  won  golden  opinions  from  the 
most  eminent  critics,  such  as  Matthew  Arnold, 
Victor  Hugo,  the  London  Saturday  Review^  Hugh 
Hastings,  the  New  York  Nation,  Bayard  Taylor, 
George  Ripley,  Louise  Chandler  Moulton,  Ray 
Palmer,  Dr.  R.  Shelton  Mackenzie,  Oscar  Wilde, 
Boston  Literary  World,  Utica  (N.  Y.)  Herald, 
New  York  Christian  Union,  New  York  Conifnercial 
Advertiser,  Philadelphia  Press,  Philadelphia  Tiines, 
etc.,  etc.  They  have  not  looked  at  him,  sniffed 
lightly,  uttered  a  few  words  of  faint  praise  or  angry 
contempt,  and  passed  on.  They  have  looked, 
listened,  and  praised.  The  following  criticism, 
written  in  1877,  is  Enrique  Parmer's  estimate  of 
the  Kansas  poet  : 

"  This  man,  whose  lips  have  touched  the  rim  of 
nature's  poesy,  who  has  drifted  without  bluster  into 
the  wind-swept  forests  of  song,  is  young  in  years, 
and  his  genius  is  now  stretching  its  wings  for  its 
first  flight.  Thomas  Brower  Peacock  is  gifted  with 
poetic  genius.  The  author  of  '  Vendetta '  develops 
in  that  effort  alone  evidences  of  all  the  elements  of 
the  poet,  while  in  the  minor  poems  many  gems 
of  purest  ray  flash  out,  which  foreshadow  the  dawn 
of  brighter  imagery  for  the  grand  thoughts  that  lie 
here  and  there  on  the  pages  of  the  book. 


XX  Preface. 

"His  poetry  is  thoroughly  human — a  poetry 
which  reproduces,  as  we  read  it,  all  the  feelings  of 
our  wayward  nature — which  shows  how  man  was 
made  to  mourn,  to  be  merry,  to  doubt.  The  de- 
scriptive and  the  picturesque  have  a  large  place  in 
his  writings.  A  picture  with  him  is  more  than  the 
mere  drapery  of  a  passion.  The  chivalric  past  has 
as  yet  received  but  little  of  his  veneration.  The 
conflicts  of  the  ancient  rival  factions  have  some- 
what greater  enchantment  than  the  gorgeous  false- 
hoods of  departed  ages,  to  warm  his  fancy  or  to  rule 
his  pen.  He  has  little  to  do  with  rank  or  reverence, 
except  when  he  enters  the  pale  of  the  supernatural. 

"  His  imagery  is  true  ;  it  is  also  original.  He 
meditated  by  himself  and  he  studied  the  outward 
phenomena  of  nature  with  strange  enthusiasm  ; 
hence  it  is  not  surprising  that  this  youthful  poet 
should  have  enriched  his  mind  with  truth,  fresh- 
ness, and  originality,  and  that  these  should  appear 
in  imagery  and  description. 

"  The  reader  will  find  many  beauties,  many  curi- 
ous fancies,  many  strange  pictures  wrought  out 
with  marvellous  power.  He  will  find  wild  romances 
painted  with  a  master  pen,  long  rolling  verse,  al- 
most as  good  as  that  of  '  Childe  Harold,'  occasional 
bursts  of  inspiration  vivid  as  that  of  Poe  or  Shelley, 
description  as  dignified  and  orthodox  as  that  of 
Wordsworth,  while  many  stanzas  are  as  musical  and 
enrapturing  as  Tennyson's  '  Locksley  Hall,'  " 

Mr.  Peacock  has  received  no  less  generous  treat- 
ment at   the   hands   of   critics  abroad.     There  is 


Preface,  xxi 

probably  no  safer  guide  in  the  matter  of  literary- 
criticism  than  Matthew  Arnold,  and  this  is  what  he 
says  of  our  poet  :  "  He  takes  a  subject  which  inter- 
ests him  and  he  treats  it  with  liveliness  and 
vigor." 

The  London  Saturday  Review^  another  great 
authority,  says  : 

"  What  America  needs  is  a  poet  of  the  soil,  as  the 
people  say.  The  American  bard  should  be  a  child 
of  nature,  '  self-taught,'  like  the  minstrel  of  Odys- 
seus, a  warrior,  a  lover,  a  soaring  human  being.  He 
should  be  inspired  by  the  noble  history  of  his  own 
race  in  the  New  World.  He  should  not  look  to  the 
past  for  subjects,  but  'live  in  the  living  present.' 
All  these  qualities  meet,  we  think,  in  Thomas 
Brower  Peacock. 

"The  poet,'  in  a  passage  of  grandeur,  compares 
Quantrell  to  Satan.  Both  were  on  the  losing  side, 
both  knew  better  in  their  hearts. 

''Rich  in  imagination,  Mr.  Peacock  is  also  in- 
spired by  experience  ;  like  ^neas,  he  tells  of  broils 
quorum  pars  magna  fuit,  in  his  '  Rhyme,'  as  he 
modestly  calls  his  truly  remarkable  contemporary 
epic.  The  hand  that  fired  the  field-piece  strikes 
the  lyre.  War  is  his  theme,  and  he  leads  us 
"  '  Where  Battle  stamps  his  bloody  feet.' 

"  '  So  that  the  poem  hath  expressed 
The  music  of  the  poet's  breast," 

everything  else  is  unessential.  In  an  age  when 
form  is  everything,  and  substance  is  sadly  to  seek. 


xxii  Preface. 

we  welcome  the  virile  daring  of  the  Kansas  singer. 
Mr.  Peacock  not  only  charms  us,  but  instructs  us 
too.  We  have  never  read  any  American  poetry  so 
exuberantly  American." 

Thohias  Brower  Peacock's  poems  have  thus  gen- 
erally received  favorable  comments  from  a  bright 
galaxy  of  famous  stars  in  the  literary  firmament. 


AUTHOR'S   PREFACE. 


On  the  appearance  of  this  volume,  in  its  first 
edition,  it  had  the  fortune  to  be  extensively  criti- 
cised. 

While  most  of  these  criticisms  were  favorable, 
others  were  tolerable,  and  some  execrable.  I  do 
not  wish  to  inflict  upon  my  readers  a  rehearsal  of 
my  grievances,  for  indeed  I  am  not  inclined  to 
consider  them  as  such  ;  for  it  is  seldom  that  an 
author  does  not  derive  benefit  from  even  the  most 
scathing  abuse  put  forth  by  his  antagonist.  One  of 
my  critics  has  said  :  " '  Battle  stamps  his  bloody 
feet '  is  a  superb  metaphor.  But  when  he  gets  hold 
of  a  striking  phrase  he  is  apt  to  overwork  it." 

If  he  means  that  I  have  used  the  same  expression 
twice,  he  is  in  error.  That  line  occurs  but  once  in 
my  productions.  If  he  intends  to  say  that  I  have 
expressed  the  same  idea  in  other  language  than  the 
line  quoted,  then  he  finds  fault  with  usages  of 
the  greatest  poets,  and  among  them  Lord  Byron, 
who  is  much  admired  for  his  ability  in  giving  a 
thought  in  varied  language. 

In  ''The  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War"  I  have 
endeavored  to  deal  truly  and  faithfully  with  that 
life  denominated  *'  Wild  West,"  and  to  picture  as 
accurately  as  possible  those  stirring  scenes  in  the 


xxiv  Author  s  Preface. 

troublous  days  of  the  early  settlement  of  Kansas 
and  the  West,  before  and  during  the  great  war  of 
the  Rebellion  ;  depicting  battles  on  horseback 
with  revolver  and  rifle,  guerrilla  warfare,  pioneer 
experiences,  border  broils,  and  to  keep  intact 
historical  data.  This  poem  has  been  widely  criti- 
cised, and  is  possibly  my  best. 

It  was  "  The  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War,"  as  it 
first  appeared  in  1880,  with  manuscript  corrections, 
which  called  forth  the  words  of  commendation 
from  Matthew  Arnold  and  other  eminent  critics. 
And  it  was  such  expressions  as  Mr.  Arnold's,  in 
true  appreciation  of  worth,  however  obscure,  that 
led  me  to  the  revision  and  reprinting  of  all  former 
publications  in  this  book. 

The  New  York  Natio7i^  in  commenting  upon 
"  The  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War,"  declares  : 
"Matthew  Arnold  found  in  it,  apparently,  those 
qualities  of  distinction  and  interest  which  he  de- 
clined to  recognize  in  Emerson  and  others." 

Assuming  that  the  word  "apparently"  might  to 
some  imply  a  doubt  as  to  the  authenticity  of  the 
language  quoted  from  Mr.  Arnold,  and  with  grati- 
tude to  the  press  and  the  literary  world  for  the 
courtesy  and  kindness  shown  me,  I  herewith  take 
pleasure  in  submitting  to  the  public  the  following 
autograph  letters  : 


/Ithen>eum(liib  . 


^ 


/< 


<y  y  ./if*/'// 


y 


^</k»^ 


^iH.'^^^ 


Ji/^^    /e-^t  0-<Jl^ 


>5^..4jir^*^ 


Holly  Bank  ^^^  '' ^^    ^     ^</^^/. 

audenshaw  \/ 

Nr   Manchester. 


^^ 


MISCELLANEOUS    POEMS. 


KIT  CARSON. 


A  FRAGMENT. 


T  T  E  comes  !  his  steed  with  mighty  bound 
:*■  -*■      Flies  swiftly  o'er  the  echoing  ground- 
He  seems  a  wanderer  astray, 
Whose  past  had  been  a  better  day; 
A  being  which  to  earth  was  hurled, 
Whose  home  is  in  another  world — 
Who  rides  mysterious  o'er  the  earth, 
Surprised  and  dazed  with  his  new  birth  ! 
A  river  runs  before  his  course. 
Which  he  must  cross,  and  soon,  perforce. 
The  channel's  bank  is  reached,  the  wave 
His  courser's  sides  doth  hem  and  lave. 
The  shore  is  won,  and  once  again 
He  thunders  o'er  the  endless  plain  ! 
The  rider's  stern  and  flashing  eye 
Speaks  courage,  wrath,  and  vengeance  nigh. 
And  well,  I  ween,  his  foes  may  fear 
His  anger  in  his  mad  career — 
Ah  !  who  is  he  that  finds  no  rest  ? 
'T  is  brave  Kit  Carson  of  the  west  ! 
And  some  dear  friend  he  now  doth  aid, 
Who  stands  on  peril's  brink,  afraid. 
3 


Poe^ns  of  the  Plains. 


SPIRIT  WHISPERINGS. 

/^NCE,  disconsolate  and  lonely, 

^■^^     When  my  fancies  saddened  only, 

And  my  spirit  longed  to  leap 

To  that  realm  beyond  death's  sleep  ; 

When  I  hungered  for  some  token 

Of  that  future  life  unbroken 

By  a  breath  or  melody, 

Or  a  tone  of  minstrelsy, 

In  the  darkness  all  engloomed. 

Was  my  soul,  in  night  entombed — 

When  I  felt  the  Alpine  weight 

Of  life's  burdens,  pressed  by  fate  ; 

Then  this  boon  of  beauty  only, 

Came  to  me  in  secret  lonely  : 

Though  all  men  revile  and  chide  me, 

Yet  the  angels  are  beside  me, 

And  they  kiss  the  poet's  brow. 

As  they  kiss  me  even  now. 

When  I  sought  some  mystic  rune 

Which  would  charm  my  soul  in  tune 

With  harmony  unheard  by  ear 

Of  wanderer  through  earth's  valley  here- 

But  no  gonfalon  of  glory 

Came  to  gladden  with  its  story. 

Then  I  sought  the  weird  entrancement 

Of  Poe's  poems  for  enhancement  ; 

Whose  sweet  haunting  melody 


spirit  Whisperings. 

Bore  me  toward  Infinity — 
Far  beyond  the  outmost  star, 
To  the  golden  gates  ajar. 
As  I  sat,  I  thought  how  sadly 
Waned  his  life-star,  and  how  madly 
Drained  he  from  the  chalice,  liquor. 
But  to  feel  its  mad'ning  ichor — 
When  black  ravens  came  and  stayed — 
Spectral  ravens  perched  and  preyed 
On  his  heart  of  melancholy. 
And  he  felt  the  curse  of  folly. 
Magician  thou  of  poesy  all. 
Pray,  my  spirit  disinthrall  ! 
My  heart  's  shipwrecked  evermore     ' 
On  a  goblin-haunted  shore. 
And  I  hear  the  fiends*  wild  laughter, 
And  the  dreaded  silence  after  ! 
From  the  spirit-shore  of  being 
Wilt  thou  prove  to  me,  in  seeing. 
That  buds  of  promise  never  die. 
But  bloom  in  radiance  o'er  the  sky  ! 
From  the  golden  gates  of  glory. 
Come  and  tell  a  happier  story 
Than  you  told  on  earth  before — 
Come,  O  come  to  earth  once  more  ! 
Oh,  I  feel  that  thou  art  near  it — 
Near  earth  and  me,  and  mankind  all. 
As  when  thy  chained  and  fettered  spirit 
Leaped  from  out  its  prison  wall ; 
Give  me.  Poet,  I  implore  ! 
Hope  or  symbol  glorious, 


Poems  of  the  Plains. 

Which  shall  lift  me  evermore 

Over  earth  victorious  ! 

Are  thy  thoughts  still  steeped  in  gloom  ? 

Or  do  they  through  all  heaven  bloom  ? 

Like  song-birds  forever  flown 

To  that  hidden  world  unknown, 

Like  soft  music  heard  in  dreams, 

Like  sweet  voice  of  sylvan  streams, 

Like  harps  played  by  angel  power, 

We  hear  in  beauty  some  pure  hour — 

Startled  from  my  doubts  and  dreaming. 

With  rich  grace  and  beauty  beaming, 

Descending  through  the  starlit  space, 

Where  God's  hills  and  heaven  embrace, 

As  though  to  strengthen  indecision, 

There  arose  before  my  vision, 

In  his  intellectual  pride, 

With  his  child-wife  by  his  side, 

The  Author  of  "  The  Raven,"  smiling, 

With  this  song  my  soul  beguiling  : 

"  The  ocean  of  Eternity, 

Breaking  on  Time's  troubled  shore, 
Returns  with  cries  of  agony 

To  God  forevermore  ! 
And  we  pity  and  we  sorrow 

O'er  man's  life,  a  tragedy — 
And  we  hope  a  bright  to-morrow. 

When  the  earth  redeemed  will  be. 
With  the  dawning  golden  morning. 

With  the  morn  that  is  divine. 


spirit    Whisperings. 

I  'd  contrast  the  dismal  warning, 
Of  that  past  which  once  was  mine. 

I  would  read  the  runic  story 
Of  my  life  that  's  wed  to  time  ; 

O  I  read  it  sad  and  hoary 

With  a  vice  that  seems  a  crime  ! 

0  I  see  the  tempter  sparkling, 
Glowing  in  the  goblet  bright  ! 

And  I  see  the  shadows  darkling 
Till  I  stand  on  brink  of  night. 

Within  a  city  maddening, 
With  a  dagger  at  my  heart, 

1  saw  the  record  saddening. 
Of  my  life  the  mortal  part. 

Lo  !  there  came  from  out  the  midnight, 

Into  which  my  spirit  peered, 
A  phantom  toward  the  firelight, 

Which  my  craven  heart  had  feared. 
And  from  out  his  bosom,  glowing 

With  a  beauty  not  of  earth. 
Drew  a  wondrous  mirror,  showing 

Images  of  lovely  worth. 
Angels  therein  flitted,  saintly, 

Glided  by,  and  me  entranced — 
And  my  being  shadowed  faintly, 

I  beheld,  that  on  me  glanced. 
By  the  aid  of  firelight's  flicker. 

There,  above,  I  'm  pictured  dim — 
And  I  quaff  a  fiery  liquor. 

Ruby  to  a  tankard's  rim. 


Poems  of  the  Plains, 

Then  I  knew  my  thirst  so  maddening, 

Had  enslaved  my  soul  full  fast — 
Since  I  've  left  earth's  moorings,  gladdening, 

I  have  risen  o'er  the  past. 
Love  is  here,  an  endless  sea, 

God  and  His  eternal  noon — 
Here  truth  wakes  into  melody. 

Like  echoes  'neath  the  moon. 


THE  KANSAS  INDIAN'S  LAMENT. 

I. 

/^UR  tribe  is  less'ning  year  by  year, 
^-^     The  pale-face  drives  us  back — 
With  us,  the  bison,  bear,  and  deer 

Before  his  onward  track — 
In  battle  with  his  armed  power. 
The  Red  Man  fears  but  dares  now  cower. 

IL 

The  footprints  of  our  moc'sins  fade, 
They  once  left  paths  for  miles,  . 

And  the  Great  Spirit  hides  in  shade. 
No  more  we  see  his  smiles  : 

Few  wampum  belts  our  tribe  needs  yet, 

For  soon  the  warrior's  star  will  set. 


The  Kansas  Indian  s  Lament. 
III. 

These  broad  prairies  once  were  ours ; 

We  fished  the  many  rivers  ; 
On  yonder  Kaw,  embanked  with  flowers, 

With  arrows  in  our  quivers, 
With  dusky  maids,  wigwams  behind. 
We  sailed  before  the  singing  wijid. 


IV. 


The  sunflower  waved  its  yellow  head. 

Across  the  grassy  plains — 
And,  like  our  chieftain,  now  are  dead 

The  spirit-herbs  for  pains  : 
Pale-face,  our  mild  clime  's  not  for  thee, 
It  moves,  with  us,  toward  sundown  sea. 


V. 


Our  moons  are  few,  our  race  is  run. 
Some  dark  fate  drags  us  down  ; 

Less  bright  the  once  all-glorious  sun. 
The  golden  stars  are  brown — 

The  tall  mounds  black  and  dismal  loom. 

Each  day  speaks  of  our  coming  doom. 

VI. 

Our  wasted  race — my  father  brave, 
My  squaw  and  pappoose  too, 


lo  Foenis  of  the  Plains. 

All  here  lie  buried  in  the  grave, 

Here  rots  my  swift  canoe — 
The  things  I  loved  have  passed  away, 
Ah  !  soon  will  I  be  gone  as  they  ! 

VII. 

Methinks  the  pale  race  might  have  spared 
Some  spot  where  we  'd  abide, — 

Spared  us,  who  once  owned  all,  and  shared 
With  them  from  tide  to  tide  : 

*T  is  strange,  't  is  passing  strange  to  me, 

Why  they  would  drive  us  in  the  sea. 

VIII. 

Our  small  tribe  's  scattered  like  the  leaves 

And  wasted  to  a  few — 
Each  warrior  for  the  bright  past  grieves, 

Which  vanished  from  our  view  ! 
They  wait  till  Manitou's  voice  sounds. 
Calling  to  Happy  Hunting  Grounds. 


IX. 


We  go  !  the  White  Race  takes  our  place  ; 

Great  Spirit,  what  am  I  ! 
Once  thousands  strong,  where  's  now  my  rac( 

On  plains  beyond  the  sky  ? 
O  take  me  too,  I  would  not  stay. 
When  all  I  loved  have  passed  away  ! 


Shakespeare  and  Byron.  1 1 

X. 

Perchance,  when  many  moons  have  fled 

And  the  Great  Spirit's  wrath, 
Our  many  loved  ones,  from  the  dead. 

Will  come  back  to  earth's  path, 
To  hunt  again  the  buffalo. 
And  no  pale  race  to  bring  us  woe. 

XI. 

But  soft  !  methinks  I  hear  a  voice  ? 

Great  Manitou's  !   speaks  He  ! 
It  makes  my  craven  heart  rejoice — 

O  what  wouldst  Thou  with  me  ? 
"  Be  brave  !  God's  Happy  Hunting  Grounds, 
Are  great  and  good,  and  have  no  bounds  !  " 


SHAKESPEARE  AND  BYRON. 

"  I  "HE  drama  hath  its  Avon  Bard,  sublime, 
"^       The  one  great  eagle  of  the  upper  air. 
To  reach  whose  heights  the  mightiest  e'en  despair ; 
In  this,  the  one  protagonist  of  time — 
In  spontaneity,  the  source  and  strength  of  rhyme. 
Is  Byron  gifted  less  than  he,  Shakespeare  ? 
Who  draws  the  line,  and  who  can  make  it  clear  ? 
Up  Mount  Parnassus,  far  ascents  they  climb, 
Each  one  with  voice  and  grandeur  of  the  ocean. 


12  •        Poems  of  the  Plains. 

'  Neath  fame's  bright  light  men  both  must  e'er  ad- 
mire. 
With  heart  and'  mind,  with  lover's  true  devotion — 
In  noble  rage,  each  flames  volcanic  fire  : 
Puissant  Powers  !  names  ne'er  to  be  downtrod, 
Immortal  as  the  deathless  stars  of  God  ! 
Sept.  24,  1887. 


BEYOND. 

O   HEAVENLY    Muse  !    with    thy    soft  dulcet 
shell. 
Breathe  unto  me  thy  many  fancies  wild  ! — 
Give  me  thy  mighty  magic  undefil'd — 
Boundless  imagination's  charming  spell — 
Heaven's  highest  inspiration  yield  as  well ; 
That  I  with  these — though  momentary  power^ 
Behold  beyond  this  lowly  realm  of  Hour — 
Beyond,   where    knowledge,    power,    and    wisdom 

dwell 
'Midst  beauty's  wealth  sublime — where  all  we  name 
Eternity — and  change  as  time  is  styled. 
By  which  the  life  of  mortal  is  beguiled. 
Where  Past,  Present,  and  Future  are  one,  th'  same. 
Where  God's  intelligence  hath  ever  smil'd — 
To  world  beyond  ;  where  dwell  Love,  Hope,  an4 

Fame. 


TJie  Doomed  Ship  ^^Atlantic^  13 


THE  DOOMED  SHIP  "ATLANTIC." 

[The  steamship  "Atlantic,"  of  the  White  Star  line,  of 
England,  Captain  Williams  commanding,  was  lost  off  Hali- 
fax, Nova  Scotia,  April  i,  1873.  Out  of  1,000  souls  of  both 
sexes  and  all  ages,  but  between  300  and  400  escaped,  and  of 
that  number,  with  few  exceptions,  all  were  unmarried  men. 
Not  a  female  survived.] 

'T^HE  good  swift  ship  "Atlantic,"  free, 

Rides  at  her  moorings,  trim  and  sound — 
Ready  for  her  voyage  o'er  the  sea, 

With  freight  of  souls,  far  distant  bound. 
A  bride  of  peerless  grace  she  seems, 

A  sweet  young  bride  whom  Heaven  doth  bless 
With  th'  beauty  of  w^hich  th'  poet  dreams — 

A  queen  of  wondrous  loveliness — 
A  queen  whose  kingdom  is  the  sea, 
Her  sceptre  floating  wide  and  free. 
A  thousand  hearts  prophetic  beat 
On  board — where  Life  and  Love  now  meet. 
The  Future's  veil  is  closely  drawn, 
Save  where  Hope  points  a  lovely  dawn. 
The  ship  is  loos'd — the  farewells  said — 
They  part,  the  living — how  soon  dead 
Will  many  be,  that,  parting,  hear 
Their  last  love  breathed  in  willing  ear  ! 
Now  numbers  to  high  Heaven  pray, 

While  down  the  Mersey's  limpid  stream 
They  're  floating  on  their  joyful  way, 

The  emblem  of  a  blissful  dream. 


14  Poems  of  the  Plains. 

The  noble  ship  speeds  on — away — 

On  mighty  ocean,  broad  and  deep — 
Rolls  in  her  wake  the  foaming  spray, 

Where  oft  the  storms  in  anger  sweep  ; 
The  gentle,  rolling,  restless  waves 
Speak  not  of  danger  nor  of  graves, 
But  dancing  blithesome  o'er  the  sea, 
List  t'  voices  mingling  merrily. 
No  cloud  now  frets  the  sapphire  sky. 
But  all  is  bright — beneath — on  high — 
While  swiftly  wings  their  rapid  flight. 
Where  wave  and  heaven  blend  on  the  sight- 
And  floating  o'er  the  ocean  swell 
Go  joyous  murmurings — all  is  well. 
Hope  walks  the  wave— Despair,  unseen. 
Is  sleeping  down  below  ;  where  green 
The  dank  weed  grows — where  Ruin  moves. 
Preying  on  corses  of  lost  loves. 
Like  mighty  phantom  of  the  past, 
Wand'ring  through  space  sublime  and  vast, 
The  ship  glides  on  her  lonely  way, 
And  round  the  living  breezes  play. 
Cloud-fleets  appear  far  in  the  sky, 
And  through  the  upper  deep  float  by. 
As  dying  Day  sinks  on  his  bier. 
And  Twilight  sheds  the  mourning  tear, 
From  out  the  deep,  as  murderer  can. 
One  steals  on  board,  unseen  by  man. 
And  grins  and  chuckles  at  the  thought  : 
"  I  soon  will  gloat  o'er  misery  wrought  !  " 
'T  is  he,  grim  Death,  dark,  fierce,  and  bold- 


The  Doomed  Ship  ''Atlantic:'  15 

He  comes  for  victims  young  and  old  ; 
But,  ah  !  too  soon  to  triumph  here. 

Hark  !  hark  !  a  voice  :  '''Away,  ingrate  !  " 
He  heeds  !  slinks  off  in  darkness  drear — 

Death  well  obeys  !  't  is  the  voice  of  Fate  ! 
Descending,  Night,  with  visage  dark, 
Drops  her  black  mantle  o'er  the  bark 
And  o'er  time's  pathway  journeys  on — 
Many  to  dream's  charm'd  realm  have  gone. 
Astray  from  port  ^  where  Hope  abides, 

Through  gloom,  where  Danger  rides  the  blast, 
The  bark  toward  eternity  glides — 

That  mighty  deep  she  's  nearing  fast. 
Upon  the  hazardous  shore  afar, 

There  glows  a  false,  weird  beacon  ^  light — 
It  seems  some  bright  though  fallen  star. 

Torn  from  the  curtained  dome  of  night  ; 
Its  phosphorous  glare  unveils  the  gloom  ; 

Each  shadow  seems  a  sad,  still  ghost ; 
Death  holds  the  light  that  lures  to  doom, 

High  over  Prospect's  headland  coast  ! 
O  fearful  woe  !     What  means  that  crash, 
Which  wakes  grim  terror  like  a  flash  ? 
The  ship  has  struck  the  pitiless  rock, 
Beats  vainly,  quiv'ring  with  the  shock. 
Hurled  from  their  berths,  now  slumberers  wake, 

Rush  to  the  deck,  bewildered,  pale  : 

1  The  harbor  of  Halifax,  which  all  on  board  thought  they 
were  safely  nearing. 

2  This  beacon  light  was  mistaken  in  the  fog  by  the  pilot  for 
the  lighthouse  of  Sambro, 


1 6  Poems  of  the  Plains. 

Some  wounded  fall ;  some  fall,  nor  make 

One  move — all  sounds  to  rouse  them  fail  ! 
Out  from  the  ship,  up  to  the  skies, 
Wild  cries  and  frantic  shrieks  arise  ; 
And  'though  a  storm  rolls  thunders  out, 
Far  louder  frenzied  voices  shout. 
Heaven's  golden  gates  wide  open  swing  ; 

Through  them  the  guardians  of  the  soul 
Swiftly,  on  peerless,  pure  white  wing. 

From  Aidenn  start,  as  th'  bells  of  heaven  toll  ! 
They  come  !  they  come  !  spirits  of  light, 

From  their  sweet  homes  in  Paradise  ! 
Tears  over  their  soft  cheeks  flow  bright, 

Issuing  from  their  angel  eyes  ! 
Where,  where  's  the  captain  this  dread  hour  ? 

He  comes  !  but  strong  drink  dims  his  eye — 
He  '11  save  !     Vain  hope,  no  human  power 

The  doomed  can  shield — alas  !  they  die  ! 
Close  on  the  brink  of  eternity 
Weak  man  braves  Heaven  continually. 
The  minute-guns  peal  forth  distress, 

And  faster  grows  the  startling  boom  ! 
Far  caverns  mock  man's  helplessness, 

Re-echoing  but  the  coming  doom. 
Upon  her  knees  in  earnest  prayer, 

Her  babe  clasped  to  her  bosom  tight, 
A  mother  cries  :   "  Oh,  dear  God,  spare 

Mine  only  child,  this  awful  night  !  " 
Each  moment,  to  the  sea,  a  wave 

Sweeps  from  the  tossing  ship  more  lives. 
And  here  and  there,  e'en  o'er  his  grave. 


The  Doomed  Ship  '^Atlanticy  17 

Still  nobly  some  strong  swimmer  strives. 
Both  Fear  and  Death  stalk  round,  as  o'er 

The  ship  rush  mortals  to  and  fro — 
Prayers,  oaths,  and  shrieks,  with  ocean  roar, 

Commingle,  clash,  more  frantic  grow  ! 
From  infancy  to  hoary  age, 
Scores,  frenzied,  war  with  death  here  wage. 
Child,  parent^over,  husband,  wife, 
Friend,  brother,  sister,  in  the  strife. 
Despairing,  raving,  many  weep. 
And  others  plunge  into  the  deep. 
With  perfect  face  and  faultless  form, 
With  raven  locks  tossed  by  the  storm. 
With  lovely  dark  eyes  wildly  gleaming. 
So  strangely  bright  her  beauty  beaming, 
She  startles  in  her  wild  distress 
With  rich  and  wondrous  loveliness  ! 
In  her  sad  beauty,  sweet  and  pale. 
Seeming  Heaven's  angel  on  the  blast, 
Lost,  wandering  through  this  dreary  vale, 

A  woman  ^  tied  to  the  icy  mast — 
High  'mid  the  rigging  firmly  lashed — 

Doth  seem  unto  her  God  to  pray  ! 
Unfeeling  Death  on  by  her  dashed. 

Scaring  her  timid  sprite  away  ! 
Beneath  the  wave,  on  deck  the  dead, 

^  This  beautiful  woman,  found  frozen  to  death  on  the  mast, 
high  in  the  rigging,  where  she  had  been  tied  by  some  kind 
friend,  to  prevent  her  being  washed  overboard,  was  the  sub- 
ject of  much  comment  by  the  many  periodicals  which  chron- 
icled the  fearful  calamity  upon  which  this  poem  is  founded. 


1 8  ^     Poems  of  the  Plains. 

Some  shrieking  died,  some  made  no  moan, 
But  like  each  liberated  spirit  fled 

On  phantom  wings  into  th'  dread  Unknown. 
None  foil  the  stern  decree  of  Fate — 

The  lowly  fall,  the  great  as  well. 
Alike  they  yield — some  soon — some  late — 

All  must,  when  sounds  God's  fearful  knell  ! 
Though  number  many  more  the  de;^d, 
Yet  on  the  ship  the  living  tread. 
And  nobly  battling  for  those  lives, 

The  bark  rebels  against  her  fate  : 
Alas  !  for  them,  in  vain  she  strives. 

And  each  false  hope  is  desolate  ! 
From  highest  rigging  to  the  deck 

Now  fiercely  reigns  o  'er  all.  Despair — 
Wild  Ruin  looks  o  'er  Hope's  sad  wreck- 
Strides  Horror,  shaking  her  snaky  hair. 
Oh,  for  one  moment  now  to  save  ! 

Till  the  brave  '  may  land  them  on  the  shore — 
That  moment 's  not.     Beneath  the  wave, 

Down,  down  she  sinks  forevermore. 
While  through  the  air  where  madness  jars, 

There  goes  a  wild  and  frenzied  yell 
Far  to  the  living,  breathing  stars, 

Goes  up  to  Heaven,  goes  down  to  Hell  !- 
That  cry  to  rouse  the  corse  suffic'd. 

Wake  life  in  its  cold  flesh  and  bone  ; 

1  C.  L.  Brady,  the  third  officer  of  the  "  Atlantic,"  and  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Ancient,  an  humble  clergyman,  who,  in  utter  dis- 
regard of  their  own  lives,  did  all  in  their  power  to  relieve  the 
suffering  and  distressed. 


The  Doomed  Ship  ^'Atlantic.''  19 

It  pierced  the  bleeding  heart  of  Christ 
And  startled  Satan  on  his  throne  ! 

Down  with  the  ship  sank  heroes  brave — 
Ne'er  nobler  souls  roamed  land  or  sea  ; 

They  willingly  ^  sank  'neath  the  wave, 
Though  told  by  dearest  lips  to  flee. 

******** 

O  thou  pale  Niobe  of  th'  deep  ! 

Now  grieving  o  'er  the  ruthless  waves, 
In  thy  wild  beauty  well  mayst  weep, 

Thy  children  dead,  in  deep  sea-graves. 
And  yet  't  is  well  !  for  they  all  are 

Now  free  from  every  want  and  care, 
And  rest  as  peaceful  as  the  star 

In  heaven's  pure,  holy  bosom  there. 
Then  sleep,  ye  dead,  eternal  sleep — 

Sleep  on  in  your  unf athomed  graves ; 
O'er  you  immortal  sea-nymphs  weep  ; 

O'er  you  the  lovely  sea-flower  waves. 

1  Many  of  the  married  men  that  perished,  had  they  aban- 
doned their  wives  and  families,  could  have  swum  to  shore  and 
thus  saved  themselves,  as  most  of  the  unmarried  men  did  ; 
but,  although  in  many  instances  urged  by  their  wives  to  leave, 
they  nobly  remained  and  heroically  died— true  martyrs  at  the 
shrine  of  love. 


20  Poems  of  the  Plams. 


MAN. 

'T^HE  history  of  the  human  race 

'*'       Is  but  a  tragedy  of  tears  ! 
Man's  life  's  a  passing  breath,  I  trace, 
Where  always  jostle  hopes  and  fears. 

As  bark  tossed  by  the  stormy  sea. 
High  on  the  foam-capped  wave  is  hung, 

One  moment  more,  and  lost  't  will  be, 
Engulfed  for  aye — by  all  unsung  ! 

So  man  each  hour  stands  on  death's  brink, 

Unto  himself  a  mystery  ! 
An  instant  stands,  then  down  doth  sink, 

Lost  in  obhvion's  sombre  sea. 

Then  boast  not  of  thy  power,  O  man  ! 

Thou  art  no  more — no  more  shalt  be — 
Compared  to  God,  the  Mighty,  than 

A  second  to  Eternity. 


Capital  and  Labor,  21 


SONNET  TO  MATTHEW  ARNOLD. 

/^H,  welcome  to  our  shores,  great  poet,  sage  ! 
^-^     Great  King  of  Thought,  thou  gemm'st  the 

sky  of  time — 
We  feel  twice  honored — twice  thou  'st  come,  sublime 
With  sovereign  power  ;  thrice  fame  thou  'st  won 

this  age ; 
(Which  long  shall  glow  on  Truth's  immortal  page  !) 
Once  as  the  poet,  once  as  essayest,  thou  ! 
Once  as  the  critic,  peer  of  Goethe,  now. 
That  scythe  which  mows  the  fairest  from  the  stage, 
Will  touch  thee  not,  thy  fame  shall  brightly  glow 
As  star  from  out  the  midnight  sky,  etern, 
A  light  above  time's  ruins,  dark  and  low. 
To  evermore  in  deathless  beauty  burn  ! 
I  sing  thy  praise — had  I  thy  rhythmic  might 
The  saints  of  Heaven  would  listen  with  delight  ! 


CAPITAL  AND    LABOR. 

IV /r  UST  Wrong  the  wide  world  e'er  oppress  ? 
^  Must  Truth  forever  be  downtrod  ? 

Must  men  unanswered,  e'er  address 
Their  orisons  to  God  ? 

Must  gold  o'er  labor  ever  gloat 

In  crimes  too  dark  to  be  forgiven  ? 


22  Poems  of  the  Plains. 

Must  Hell's  black  banners  ever  float 
Against  the  glorious  skies  of  Heaven  ? 

Not  if  I  read  the  stars  aright — 

The  stars  of  far  immensity  ! 
Lo  !  morning  breaks,  and  melts  the  night 

Before  the  golden  days  to  be  ! 

Progression  leads  us  up  and  on, 
And  Error  must  his  life  resign, 

While  Truth  on  joyous  wings  of  dawn, 
Immortal,  floats  to  the  Divine. 


THE  CLOSE  OF  DAY. 

'T^HE  moon  from  out  the  east  doth  peep  ; 

"'■       The  sun  's  low  wheeling  o'er  the  deep  ; 
The  stars  are  scattered  in  the  sky  ; 
The  mountains  rear  their  heads  on  high  ; 
The  vale  is  curtained  and  asleep  ; 
The  brook  and  river  onward  creep  ; 
The  mocking-bird  its  melody 
Is  swelling  from  the  hawthorn  tree. 
Sounds  soft  and  low  the  tinkling  fold  ; 
Loud  barks  the  watch-dog  fierce  and  bold. 
The  owlet  shrieks  far  down  the  brakes, 
The  frog  the  drowsy  cricket  wakes. 
There  stands  the  well,  and  here  the  stile  , 
Where  rustics  oft  their  hours  beguile  ; 
But  Day  hath  died— Night  mounts  the  throne. 
Reigns  o'er  the  slumbering  world  alone. 


The  Poet's  Reverie.  23 


THE  POET'S  REVERIE. 

THE  moon  hangs  like  the  fairest  lily, 
Far  out  above  the  lucid  lake, 
Like  lesser  flowers,  stars  sweet  and  stilly, 
On  high,  in  golden  glory  wake  ! 

A  bard  of  high  and  heavenly  mood — 

A  poet,  hence  a  mystery — 
A  being  little  understood 

Here,  this  side  eternity — 

Stands  dreaming  'neath  the  summer  heaven, 
His  heart  in  sympathy  with  all. 

The  poet  feels  in  th'  lonely  even 

Death  opes  the  gates  o'  the  jasper  wall. 

The  poet  of  the  beautiful. 

The  poet  of  the  good  and  pure, 

The  nightingale  hears,  dutiful, 
Like  lovely  voice  of  angel  wooer. 

A  golden  dream  moves  through  the  vale, 
And  down  the  mount  a  zephyr  comes  ; 

A  whisper  breathes  through  forest  swale, 
Where  the  pensive  night-moth  hums. 

That  beauty  seen  by  poet's  eye. 

Though  hid  to  visions  not  so  bright. 

Bespangles  earth,  air,  sea,  and  sky — 
Enchanting  loveliness— delight  ! 


24  Poems  of  the  Plains, 

From  ocean  foam  more  stars  arise 
And  join  their  sisters  of  the  night — 

On  mystic  wings,  from  Paradise, 
Lo  !  hosts  of  angels  pass  in  sight  ! 

The  poet  feels  the  spell,  like  sleep, 
The  magic  spell  that  floats  o'er  all, 

Across  immensity's  vast  deep — 
The  spirits  of  the  blessed  call. 

He  feels,  'though  strange,  life  's  grand  and  fair  ; 

That  beauty  springs  from  the  Unknown, 
And  love  ;  that  we  should  not  despair 

Of  hopes  we  deem  forever  flown. 


THE  EVIL  SPIRIT  OF  THE  PLAINS.* 

"T^  IS  midnight  on  the  endless  plain, 

"^  The  round  moon  shines  upon  the  slain — 
Shines  on  the  white  man  and  the  red  ; 
Two  scores  are  sleeping  with  the  dead — 
The  Indian  warriors  number  more 
Than  their  pale  foemen  of  the  war. 
And  lo  !  excited  braves  appear, 
Conversing  of  a  foe  they  fear  ; 
Their  dreaded  enemy  remains — 
"  The  Evil  Spirit  of  the  Plains." 

^  W.  F.  Cody,  alias  "  Buffalo  Bill,"  is  known  to  the  Indian 
tribes  of  the  West,  who  fear  him,  as  "  The  Evil  Spirit  of  the 
Plains." 


The  Bandit  Chief.  25 

They  fear  him  as  a  denizen 

Of  some  far  world  beyond  their  ken. 

'T  would  seem  that  mortal  weapons  failed 

To  slay  him  though  a  host  assailed  ; 

'T  would  seem  some  power,  some  fiend,  or  God, 

Protected  him  each  path  he  trod  ; 

For  when  the  war  waxed  wild  and  dread, 

He  fought  around  and  o'er  the  dead — 

Though  scores  died  in  the  battle's  breath, 

He  would  not  fly  nor  yield  to  death. 

His  battle-cry  rose  o'er  the  plains, 

And  e'er  their  solitudes  profanes. 

He  comes  !  they  see  him — now  they  fly, 

Far  onward,  'neath  the  western  sky. 

And  well  they  fly— 't  is  Buffalo  Bill, 

Who  for  swift  vengeance  seeks  his  fill. 


THE  BANDIT  CHIEF. 

TT  ARK  !  't  is  a  courser's  clattering  feet  ! 

That  courser  madly  speeds  away — 
The  midnight  moon  from  her  high  seat 
Sheds  on  the  earth  her  brightest  ray. 

Who  comes  ?     A  rushing  steed  draws  nigh. 
Whose  hoofs  are  sounding  far  and  near  ! 

As  swift  as  though  from  ghouls  he  'd  fly. 
He  passes  forest,  plain,  and  mere. 


26  Poems  of  the  Plains. 

Perchance  some  wild  fiend  crazed  with  fright, 
Flies  on  its  way  from  Heaven  down  hurled  ^ 

Perchance  some  demon  of  the  night, 

Escaped  from  Hell,  rides  o'er  the  world  ! 


Whoe'er  he  be  so  fearful  near, 

As  dread  as  fiend  or  demon  he, 
To  followers  he  rules  through  fear, 

And  leads  through  crimes  to  victory. 

He  nears  !     I  see  his  eye  of  hate  ! 

'T  is  gleaming  like  an  evil  star  ; 
He  seems  th'  embodied  form  of  fate 

Swift  rushing  to  the  field  of  war. 

On,  on,  the  terror  of  the  sod, 

A  tempest  in  his  heart  of  ire  ; 
He  fears  no  man,  no  fiend,  no  God, 

In  his  wild,  stormy  soul  of  fire. 

Ah  !  well  each  follower  knew  his  power  ; 

They  'd  felt  the  thunder  of  his  might — 
They  knew  his  wrath  at  any  hour 

Was  like  the  awful  storm  of  night. 

To  him  all  foes  in  combat  quailed. 
Before  his  arm  and  eagle  eye — 

His  life  seemed  charmed — to  him  death  paled- 
He  swept  in  power  puissant  by. 


The  Bandit  Chief,  27 

As  when  in  darkness  men  do  mourn, 

And  lo  !  a  star  breaks  through  the  night  ! 

That  star  a  mighty  genius  born, 

Grasps  from  the  gloom  immortal  light  ! 

So  when  great  hosts  had  them  at  bay. 
And  his  wild  clan  deemed  all  were  lost, 

He  led  them  from  the  night  to  day — 
On  like  the  storm-swept  holocaust  ! 

Woe  !  woe  to  them  he  seeks  this  night. 
For  they  shall  feel  his  vengeful  hand — 

They  who  have  robbed/  without  the  right 
From  him,  the  leader  of  the  band  ! 

I  see  him  yet  !  and  lo  !  he  's  gone — 

And  yet  I  hear  his  steed  of  fire. 
Whose  steel-clad  hoofs  still  clatter  on, 

Swift  bearing  him  and  all  his  ire. 

Full  twenty  years  James  reigned  supreme, 

The  monarch  of  his  own  desire  ; 
His  will  was  all  the  law,  't  would  seem, 

That  marked  his  mad  career  of  fire. 


^  Occasionally  some  of  Jesse  James's  clan  committed  rob- 
bery unknown  to  him,  in  order  to  cheat  him  out  of  his  portion 
of  the  spoils,  which  was  the  lion's  share.  Then  the  culprits 
met  with  justice  at  the  hands  of  their  irate  chief,  whose  path, 
sooner  or  later,  they  were  certain  to  cross. 


28  Poems  of  the  Plains. 

And  like  the  great  Napoleon, 

He  passed  in  view  before  man's  ken, 

A  great  and  strange  phenomenon — 
A  Titan  asking  naught  of  men. 

He  did  what  others  would  not  dare — 
His  deeds  were  rampant,  fierce,  and  fell ; 

Throughout  his  life,  and  everywhere, 

He  braved  each,  all — man,  Heaven,  and  Heli 


COROLINDA  BLAKE. 

SHE    stands    and   combs  her  long  and   flowing 
hair. 
Hard  by  Nature's  mirror — the  pure,  limpid  lake— 
None  could  imagine  aught  so  fresh  and  fair, 
As  sweet  and  lovely  Corolinda  Blake. 

Her  eyes  are  like  two  gentle  stars,  that  beaming 
Do  through  the  gloom  of  night,  benignly  break — 

Her  mouth  is  like  a  sweet  red  rose  when  dreaming 
At  morn,  'midst  summer,  Corolinda  Blake. 


Now  as  she  combs  her  flowing  tresses  dark, 
Lo  !  that  fair  hand,  how  perfect  in  its  make 

Behold  that  face  and  form,  her  beauty  mark  ! 
'T  is  to  enshrine  fair  Corolinda  Blake. 


Sonnet  to  Milton.  29 

Not  e'en  the  love-enthralling  Aphrodite, 

The  Queen  of  Love,  for  all  her  beauty's  sake, 

Could  pluck  one  laurel  from  her  brow  ;  brightly 
Heaven  breathed  round  her,  my  Corolinda  Blake. 

She  blushes  at  her  eidolon  near  her, 

Their  thirst  for  beauty  the  clear  waters  slake  ; 

Js  there  in  Heaven  an  angel  fairer,  dearer, 
Than  pretty,  brown-eyed  Corolinda  Blake ! 


SONNET  TO  MILTON. 

1\ /riLTON  !  thou  Titan  of  the  epic  song. 

Majestically  thy  verse  moves  on  sublime, 
Above  the  wrecks  and  ruins  eld  of  time  ; 
In  stately  numbers,  thrilling,  grand,  and  strong. 
High  o'er  the  singers  of  the  lower  throng. 
Reared  on  the  loftiest  pinnacle,  thy  voice 
Wakes  the  wide  world,  and  nations  now  rejoice  ! 
And  weary  hearts  grow  fresh  through  ages  long. 
Life's  plane  is  elevated  by  thy  lay — 
The  world  made  better  by  thy  poesy. 
Which  soars  so  high — thought's  radiant  rosary. 
Before  thy  mighty  march  the  night  gives  way, 
O  minstrel  of  the  glorious  epic  flame — 
O  great  protagonist  on  the  field  of  fame  ! 
June  14,  1887. 


30  Poems  of  the  Plains. 


A  DREAM. 

A     DREAM  I  dreamt,  the  other  night — 
^^     When  birds  of  darkness  take  their  flight 
Inwrapp'd  I  lay,  a  shadow'd  soul, 
At  midnight  hour  when  spirits  stroll, 
And  howling  demons  ride  the  blast — 
Strange  phantoms  from  the  wasted  Past. 
I  thought  I  gazed  at  changeful  sky. 
And  watched  the  dark  clouds  floating  by, 
And  lay  and  saw  the  pale  moon  stray 
Through  Heaven's  broad  and  trackless  way — 
'Midst  stars — mysterious  worlds  of  light — 
The  flowers  of  heaven  adorning  night. 
I  gazed  upon  the  rolling  waves, 
Beneath  saw  Deep's  unfathomed  caves. 
And  many  a  sea-flower  waving  there. 
Round  fair  mermaids  with  golden  hair  ; 
Living  in  love  a  happy  life, 
Far  from  the  haunts  of  mortal  strife — 
As  beautiful  as  e'er  did  beam 
Ideal  in  Endymion's  dream. 
Saw  Neptune's  calves  feed  on  the  shore— 
The  herd  old  Proteus  guards  o'er  ; 
Then  counted  the  celestial  spheres, 
Reminding  me  of  absent  years — 
Of  days  and  deeds,  pass'd,  vanish'd,  gone — 
As  'midst  the  winter  summer's  dawn. 
Like  snow  which  falls  on  mountain  brow 


A  Dream.  31 

In  vale  its  rippling  waters  now. 

Saw  angel  acts  by  sons  of  God, 

Children  who  e'er  the  right  path  trod. 

And  saw  beneath  moon's  shadow'd  sheens 

Carousals  dark  of  many  fiends, 

Low  sunk  in  deepest  depths  of  sin — 

The  vilest  hosts  of  Pluto's  kin. 

Upon  the  Stygian  waters  tossing, 

I  saw  souls  the  Cocytus  crossing. 

Ferried  through  the  mystic  dark 

By  Charon  in  his  phantom  bark — 

While  to  and  fro  along  the  shore 

Roam'd  sad  ghosts  longing  to  pass  o'er. 

And  all  things  here  which  I  did  see 

Bore  th'  sombre  beauty  of  Hecate. 

I  heard  loud  sounds  of  fiercest  might, 

Commingled  with  low  moans  of  Night. 

I,  too,  saw  friends  I  long  to  see, 

In  dreamland,  who  are  far  from  me. 

And  'midst  those  many  friends  of  yore 

Saw  those  who  're  lost  forevermore — 

Though  heart  may  long  till  mind  doth  craze, 

They  're  lost  to  all  save  Fancy's  gaze. 

Thus  visions  pass,  resplendent  play, 

Like  light  from  Heaven  snatched  away. 

The  night  pass'd  on — bright  came  day's  beam  : 

I  woke  to  find  at  last— A  DREAM. 


32  Poems  of  the  Plains. 


IN  MEMORY. 

/^UR  darling  left  us  in  the  night, 
^-^     She  mounted  high  on  golden  wings, 
And  since  she  left  we  see  the  light 
Of  Heaven  which  a  message  brings. 

She  left,  and  yet  she  still  remains  ; 

We  hear  her  whisperings  soft  and  low  ; 
At  morn,  and  when  the  daylight  wanes, 

Her  loved  light  footsteps  come  and  go. 


TO  MY  WIFE. 

T   WAKE  again  the  sleeping  lyre, 
^    To  sing  once  more  of  beauty  bright — 
While  birds  and  flowers  of  spring  aspire 
To  lead  the  young  Month  to  the  light. 

While  lovely  music  melts  around. 

From  God  unseen,  who  all  doth  see  ! 

I  think  of  her  whose  thoughts  abound 
With  love  for  poesy  and  me. 

I  love  her  fondly — she  's  the  star 

That  guides  me  onward  through  the  wilds- 
Through  this  world's  wilderness  afar 

She  lights  my  pathway  with  her  smiles. 


Richard  Realf.  33 

Long,  long  I  have  enraptured  hung 

Upon  the  beauty  of  her  voice — 
For  in  the  music  of  her  tongue 

My  heavy  heart  and  soul  rejoice. 

The  gorgeous  throne  in  regal  hall 
Without  my  dear  wife  by  my  side, 

Would  be  more  desolate  than  all 
Where  woe  and  penury  abide. 

The  splendid  pomp  of  paeans  sung, 
The  loftiest  meed  of  poet's  bays, 

Could  not  my  heart  touch,  as  my  young 
Fair  wife's  sweet,  lovely,  simple  lays. 


RICHARD  REALF. 

(~\  POET  with  high  minstrel  power  ! 
^-^   O  early  Kansas  pioneer  ! 
Cut  down  in  manhood's  golden  hour, 
I  weep,  though  profits  not  the  tear. 

Oh  waft  a  song  across  to  me, 
I  '11  listen  with  my  spirit  ear  : 

Though  parted  by  a  mighty  sea, 
Poet,  I  know  that  I  shall  hear  ! 


34  Poems  of  the  Plains, 


BEAUTIFUL  WOMAN. 

"OEAUTIFUL  woman,  thou  art, 

True  to  womanhood,  sweet  ! 
God  places  in  thy  heart 

A  wealth  of  love  that  's  meet. 

And  why,  I  cannot  tell  ! 

But  oh,  thy  voice  to  me 
Sounds  like  some  far-off  bell 

That  wakes  sweet  memory  ! 


ITHE    OUTLAW. 
L 

T  T  is  the  starry  hush  of  night, 

-*■     When  Hope's  sweet  madness  thrills  the  heart, 

That  coming  days  shall  all  be  bright — 

When  happiness  comes,  ne'er  to  depart : 
With  golden,  glorious,  and  immortal  beam, 
Like  radiant  light  of  poet's  deathless  dream. 

n. 

'T  is  midnight  !  and  the  month  of  June  ; 

The  music  of  the  heavenly  spheres 
Breathes  out  a  sweet  and  wondrous  tune, 

Heard  seldom  by  man's  longing  ears— 


The  Outlaw.  35 

So  sweet  that  listen  all  the  lovely  flowers, 
And  on  their  way  the  silent  roving  hours. 


III. 


But  vexed  in  soul,  yon  man  of  crime 
Nor  heeds  nor  feels  the  witching  hour. 

All  beauty  and  all  things  sublime 

Upon  this  wight  have  lost  their  power  ; 

His  steed  impatient  at  his  long  delay, 

Hangs  on  the  bit  and  chafes  to  flee  away. 


IV. 


But  hark  !  from  yonder  forest  dun 

The  sound  of  horses'  hoofs  are  heard  ! 

A  hundred  clattering  racers  run  ! 

The  outlaw  flies  like  some  swift  bird  ! 

But  close  behind  his  foes  him  press  full  sore, 

Their  cries  of  vengeance  on  the  night-winds  roar  ! 


V. 


He  halts  !  the  outlaw  halts  to  hear  ! 

A  moment  in  the  stirrup  stands — 
His  soul  is  centered  in  his  ear, 

O'er  his  hot  brow  he  draws  his  hands — 
His  sinewy  hands   which   oft   had   choked   death 

back, 
"When  foes  were  close  upon  his  dreaded  track. 


36  Poems  of  the  Plains, 

VI. 

He  spurs  his  steed,  and  onward  flies 

Beneath  the  stars'  and  moon's  soft  light ; 

Like  some  swift  comet  down  the  skies, 
He  passes  through  the  shades  of  night  ; 

Flies  onward  toward  the  yellow  sea  away, 

Where  cloud  on  cloud  pavilioned,  darkling  lay. 

VII. 

He  spurs  his  steed,  whose  sides  are  wet 

With  foam  which  shames  the  whitest  snow — 

His  eyes  blaze  fire,  his  teeth  are  set. 
He  's  armed  and  ready  for  the  foe, 

As  e'er  he  'd  been,  when  far  and  fierce  and  free, 

He  roamed  a  pirate,  dreaded,  o'er  the  sea. 

VIII. 

Ah  !  fast  and  well  his  foes  must  run 

To  overtake  him  in  his  flight ; 
His  courser  is  the  swiftest  one 

Whose   feet    spurn    earth's   brown   breast    this 
night — 
This  night  of  June,  when  Nature  's  fair  and  grand. 
When  summer  laughs  along  the  lovely  land. 

IX. 

His  foes  knew  not  the  cost  of  hate 

When  hunting  down  this  man  of  crime — 

This  son  of  war,  this  child  of  fate, 

Who  'd  hurled  scores  to  etern  from  time  ; 


TJic  Outlaw.  37 

Whose  spirits  rose  when  armies  greatest  warred, 
When  blood  flowed  most  and  battle  loudest  roared. 


X. 


He  long  defied  both  death  and  time, 
Though  none  saw  why,  how  it  was  so — 

For  with  a  boldness  rash,  sublime,  ■ 
He  reckless  rushed  upon  the  foe — 

He  whom  some  power  unknown  protected  well  ! 

Some   power  unseen  !  some  power  of  Heaven  or 
Hell! 


XL 


Lo  !  headlong  falls  the  outlaw's  horse 
To  rise  no  more — 't  is  his  last  fall  ! 

The  outlaw's  flight  now  ends  perforce, 
And  he  alone  must  fight  them  all  ! 

On  come  the  mad,  exultant,  angry  press — 

Men  come  to  death  !  men  die  in  wild  distress ! 


xn. 


His  foes  all  dead,  none  now  debar 
The  outlaw  from  his  wonted  way  ; 

He  stays  as  though  in  blood  of  war 
His  soul  exulted  mad  alway — 

But  ah  !  one  foe  he  slew  not,  though  fivescore  ; 

Death's  iron  grasp  he  can  escape  no  more. 


38  Poems  of  the  Plains, 


THE  STRIKERS/ 

'1 1  THY  harm  your  brother  though  you  can  ? 

^  ^       Why  roll  upon  his  heart  a  stone  ? 
Build  temples  in  your  heart,  O  man  ! 

Nor  cause  one  single  tear  or  groan  : 
Why  crush  him  'neath  your  iron  tread  ? 
They  strike  not  now  for  vengeance,  but  for  bread. 

The  joyous  flowers  laugh  in  the  vale, 
The  blithesome  zephyrs  gently  sing, 

And  birds  of  beauty  in  the  swale, 
Are  haply  sailing  on  the  wing — 

But  man  must  work,  so  God  hath  said  : 

They  strike  not  now  for  vengeance,  but  for  bread. 

Fate  ofttimes  harshly  rules  man  here  ; 

Had  but  the  time  been  spared,  some  name 
Crushed  down  in  death  when  life  was  dear. 

Might  now  shed  far  the  light  of  fame  ! 
Man's  life  is  frail,  all  must  be  fed — 
They  strike  not  now  for  vengeance,  but  for  bread. 

The  ghostly  cries  of  children  dead, 

Sweet  victims  of  the  greed  of  men. 
Come  from  the  graves  of  millions  fled. 

On  spectral  wings,  beyond  our  ken  ; 
The  living  die,  and  live  the  dead  : 
They  strike  not  now  for  vengeance,  but  for  bread. 

'  Written  during  the  recent  London  bread  riot. 


The  Strikers,  39 

Their  paths  are  hedged  about  with  swords — 

Swords  wielded  by  proud  tyranny  : 
Oh  let  them  rise,  outnumbering  hordes, 

Shake  off  their  shackles  and  be  free 
Ere  their  crushed  hearts  too  long  have  bled  ! 
They  strike  not  now  for  vengeance,  but  for  bread. 

Amid  their  sacred  altar  fires, 

Hyenas  of  fierce  famine  prowl, 
That  cast  the  shades  of  funeral  pyres, 

And  demons  from  the  darkness  scowl. — 
To  what  their  sorrows  lead  or  led  : 
They  strike  not  now  for  vengeance,  but  for  bread. 

The  speaking  stars  urge  them  to  rise. 
Assert  dear  Freedom's  rights  downtrod 

By  men  who  'd  rend  the  very  skies 
And  trample  o'er  the  thrones  of  God  ! 

While  all  is  sad,  let  it  be  said— 

They  strike  not  now  for  vengeance,  but  for  bread. 

Audible  the  sounds  of  discontent, 

The  tools  of  labor  laid  away  ; 
That  peaceful  army  only  meant 

To  strike  for  justice  in  their  pay, 
That  wolves  of  want  they  need  not  dread  : 
They  strike  not  now  for  vengeance,  but  for  bread. 

The  great  machinery  is  dumb. 

The  locomotive's  voice  is  still — 
'T  would  seem  the  past  again  had  come 

By  some  enchanter's  potent  will  ! 


40  Poeins  of  the  Plains. 

God  grant  the  day  's  not  far  ahead 

When  needless  it  will  be  to  strike  for  bread. 


Look  up  !  look  up  !  God  calls  to  you, 
Ye  deaf,  all  heedless  of  the  throng — 

Beware  !  these  selfish  deeds  you  '11  rue, 
For  Right  will  triumph  over  Wrong,  * 

When  there  !  up  higher  !  God  has  led, 

Where  souls  strike  not  for  vengeance,  nor  for  bread. 


MORNING. 

T^HE  Day  hath  chased  the  Night  away, 

Beyond  the  dim  horizon  blue  ; 
The  larkspur  's  nodding  to  the  lay 
Of  turtle-dove,  on  yonder  yew. 

The  humming-bird  flies  o'er  the  heath. 

And  sips  the  sweets  from  fair  wild  flowers  ; 

From  off  the  mount  and  valley  'neath, 

The  smoke  from  dwellings  heavenward  towers. 

The  songsters  of  the  morn  have  tuned 

Their  ready  instruments  anew. 
And  have,  in  melody,  communed 

E'er  since  the  sun  first  peep'd  to  view. 


Evening.  41 

Fair  Nature,  rous'd  from  out  her  sleep, 

Hath  now  begun  the  busy  day  ; 
The  glowworm  to  its  hole  doth  creep, 

The  solemn  owl  hath  hid  away. 

The  nightingale  hath  ta'en  his  flight — 
He  's  waiting  in  some  forest  tree, 

For  coming  sombre  shades  of  night, 
To  carol  forth  his  welcome  glee. 

Off,  in  "  the  busy  haunts  of  man," 
Out  on  the  broad  and  boundless  sea, 

All  nature  and  all  life  but  can 

Praise  Thee,  O  great  Creator,  THEE  [ 


EVENING. 

"VJ IGHT'S  soft  celestials  now  reveal 

What  lurking  shadows  would  conceal  ; 
The  vesper's  chime  and  low  of  kine, 
O'er  zephyrs  steal,  that  seem  divine. 

And  music  seems  to  breathe  above — 
Where  cries  the  plaintive,  mournful  dove — 
And  sweetly  floats  through  dim  arcades. 
And  wafts  beyond  their  silent  shades. 

Down  Phoebe  smiles  ;  and  starry  spheres, 
O'er  the  mutation  of  the  years, 


42  Poems  of  the  Plains. 

The  nightingale,  no  longer  still, 
Warbles  his  wild  notes  to  his  fill. 

And  summer  twilight  paints  the  scene- 
Woods,  mountains,  vale,  and  lake  between, 
In  far  more  gorgeous  hues  than  glow 
From  Titian,  Raphael,  or  Angelo. 

The  bird  of  darkness,  in  its  flight. 

Oft  startles  far,  the  ear  of  night  ; 

Then  musing— hushed  with  th'  dreamy  air, 

The  soul  feels  lighten'd  of  its  care. 

This  is  the  hour  when  saints  repair, 
On  bended  knees,  in  humble  prayer  ; 
The  soul  then  seems  to  own  His  might, 
The  God  of  day,  the  God  of  night. 


N 


THE  CITY  OF  THE  DEAD. 

IGHT  solemnly  reign'd,  and  all  was  still  ; 
The  moon  shone  bright  o'er  distant  hill, 
And  one  by  one  each  modest  star 
Was  glim'ring  faintly  from  afar. 
I  stood  where  pensive  wanderings  led — 
'Midst  graves  of  the  departed  dead, 
And  thought  in  meditation  deep, 
How  each  had  ta'en  the  awful  leap 
Into  that  broad,  unfathom'd  sea. 


The  City  of  the  Dead.  43 

Rolling  'twixt  time  and  eternity. 

To  whose  far  depths,  unseen,  unknown, 

Millions  and  millions  of  earth  have  flown. 

Where  are  the  good  that  sank  to  rest  ? 

Are  they  with  Heaven's  sweet  angels  bless'd  ? 

The  wicked— where,  oh,  where  are  they  ? 

'T  is  mockery  for  man  to  say  ! 

But  hark  !  now  falls  a  distant  lay, 

Sweet  tones  that  mingle  far  away  ! 

They  're  voices  of  the  hallow'd  Night, 

Which  far  hath  sped  its  onward  flight. 

They  rise  in  anthems  on  the  breeze — 

Which  from  th'  South  in  music  flees— 

And  rushing  o'er  the  glistening  lake. 
From  musings  now  doth  me  awake. 
From  out  the  grove  that  's  fair  to  eye. 
Is  heard  the  dove's  soft  plaintive  cry- 
Sweet  odors  borne  on  Zephyrus'  car, 
Seem  breath  of  angels  from  afar. 
The  loose  leaves  rustle  from  their  boughs, 
And  quivering,  fall  to  other  mows. 
While  from  the  oak's  tall  leafy  shoot, 
The  solemn  owl  sends  dismal  hoot. 
Now  softly  bleat  the  folded  sheep  ! 
The  rumbling  of  the  rolling  deep 
Is  wafted  o'er  the  heath  to  me. 
And  onward— onward — far  and  free. 
And  many  sounds  both  wild  and  weird 
Th'  superstitious  long  have  fear  'd— 
Long  on  the  night-air  dwells  the  roar 
Like  shrieks  from  the  Plutonian  shore  ! 


44  Poems  of  the  Plains. 

•  But  ah  !  those  sleepers  slumber  still, 
Heedless  of  all  things,  good  and  ill  : 
Are  they  not  better  thus  by  far. 
Than  those  who  yet  through  life  do  war? 
'T  is  their  last  sleep  :  the  morn  may  break- 
From  slumber  they  '11  no  more  awake, 
Until  that  last  and  fearful  day 
When  earth  and  time  shall  pass  away  ! 
From  gloomy  wolds  a  solemn  blast 
Moan'd  mournfully  as  it  onward  pass'd  : 
Shuddering  cold,  while  night  yet  fled. 
Hastily  I  left  the  slumbering  dead. 


SONNET    TO    SAMUEL   J.    TILDEN. 

r^  REAT  man  !  great  e'en  in  treacherous  defeat — 

By  nation's  voice  selected  President ; 
For  mankind's  good  thy  statesmanship  thou  lent 
Throughout  thy  life,  till  thou  with  death  didst  meet, 
Till  thy  freed  spirit  leaped  from  prison  seat, 
To  upward  soar  to  God,  behold'His  ruth. 
To  bask  beneath  the  glorious  smile  of  truth  ! 
Loved  ones,  O  Tilden  !  will  thy  coming  greet, 
And  thou  wilt  be  a  leader  there  as  here — 
Men  long  shall  praise   thee,   wise   and  wondrous 

sage, 
To  men  thy  memory  ever  shall  be  dear, 
Far  through  the  corridors  of  every  age  ; 


United  'Though  Death  Parted.  45 

Robbed  of  thy  rights,  remains  thy  glorious  name, 
Thy  years  round  out  with  honor  and  with  fame. 


UNITED  'THOUGH  DEATH  PARTED. 

"T^AY  fled  the  scene,  and  Night,  serene, 

■*"^    In  white,  weird  moonshine  roams  ; 

The  stars  shone  bright,  like  fire  by  night 

On  mountains'  lofty  domes. 

A  sea  roU'd  deep,  a  cliff  rose  steep  ; 

Two  mortals  near,  on  shore  : 

A  girl  sat  there,  she  very  fair, 

Her  lover  did  adore. 

Upon  the  brink,  where  sea-birds  drink 

Sweet  odors  from  the  wind, 

A  flower  grew,  sweet,  fresh,  and  new, 

As  reasons  childhood's  mind. 

Oh  see,  dear  heart  !  how  zephyrs  start 

The  flower  that  yonder  grows  !  " 

Thus  when  the  maid,  admiring  said, 

She  long'd  to  have  the  rose, 

And  from  her  seat  on  airy  feet. 

Glides  toward  the  tempting  flower. 

Ere  her  love  knew  what  she  'd  in  view — 

She  stood  in  life's  last  hour. 

He  cried,  "  Forbear  !  "     'T  was  lost  on  air, 

And  shades  that  seaward  fall  ; 

Naught  now  can  save,  not  e'en  the  brave — 

The  cry  an  empty  call. 


46  Poems  of  the  Plains. 

The  cliff,  so  gray,  now  gives  away ! 

Her  hand  the  flower  retrieves, 

In  wild  suspense,  and  fear-dumb'd  sense, 

This  scene  her  lover  grieves. 

He  runs,  he  flies,  where  the  beach  low  lies, 

He  rows  from  moorings  there, 

A  strong  light  boat,  which  bright  waves  float. 

And  wildly  round  doth  stare. 

He  sees  her  locks  'neath  moss-grown  rocks — 

He  draws  her  to  the  boat. 

Alas  !  too  late  !  destin'd  had  fate 

The  soul  unbound  should  float. 

Though  lovely  she  died,  and  death  satisfied, 

Her  spirit  's  living  still. 

And  stands  on  the  wave  where  her  body  gave 

To  death  its  bloom  to  kill. 

She  looks  pale,  sweet,  her  phantom  feet 

Unwet  by  the  watery  spray — 

She  looks  as  white  as  heaven-born  sprite — 

As  robes  in  which  angels  pray. 

When,  in  surprise,  lonill  'spies 

Unharm'd,  his  own  Irene, 

Doubting  his  mind,  he  soon  doth  find 

'T  is  the  spirit  of  his  queen. 

His  tried  heart  broke  at  one  fell  stroke. 

He  looked  to  heaven  above. 

Like  soft-toned  flute,  a  sweet  salute, 

Floating  as  seraphs  move. 

Her  spirit  said — a  voice  from  the  dead — 

Softly,  to  lonill  : 

"  List  to  my  voice,  wilt  thou  heed  my  choice  ? 


United  'Though  Death  Parted.  47 

Sadly,  he  said  :  "  I  will." 

"  Then,  please,  dear  love,  my  body  move 

Where  my  parents  rest,  I  pray, 

'Neath  willows  growing,  where  waters  flowing 

A  stream,  far  on  to  the  bay. 

Yield  not  thy  breath — at  bay  keep  death — 

Haste  not  from  earth  for  me. 

Do  not  despair  ;  'though  gone,  I  'm  there. 

In  Heaven — I  '11  come  for  thee. 

'Though    broken-hearted,    we  '11    meet,    'though 

parted  !  " 
Smiling  to  him  she  leaves. 
Upward  doth  move  like  a  dream  of  love. 
She  wavers — she  knows  he  grieves. 
Not  as  before  her  way  doth  she  soar  « 

To  realms  of  beauty  and  bliss. 
Heaving  a  sigh,  tears  from  her  eye 
Fall  frorrk  the  upper  world  to  this. 
Back  she  came,  as  ever  the  same, 
And  placed  on  his  lips  a  kiss. 
'T  was  spiritual  warm — what  a  blissful  charm  ! 
Turned  back  from  Heaven  for  this  ! — 
To  kiss  him  solely — where  's  aught  more  holy  .? 
Then,  grieved  o'er  her  lover's  woe, 
She  dropped  a  tear  o'er  her  own  bier. 
Her  astral  eyes,  pitying,  glow. 
She  faded  from  sight  in  the  pale  moonlight, 
Like  the  vision  of  a  dream. 
In  sorrow,  lonill  obey'd  his  love's  will. 
Though  life  a  curse  did  seem. 
'Midst  hope  and  despair,  with  tenderest  care. 


48  Poems  of  the  Plains. 

He  buried  the  dust  of  Irene, 
Where  silence  falls  on  ghostly  palls — 
Her  own  he  placed  her  between. 
Months,  years  have  gone — lonill  lives  on, 
Loving  his  Irene  still. 

He  travelled  on — on — where  many  suns  dawn- 
Where  nights  their  missions  fill — 
Till  came  unsought,  an  inspired  thought, 
A  warning  while  afar  : 
He  must  go.  home,  no  longer  to  roam — 
With  life  no  longer  to  war. 
Like  a  spirit  of  love  from  the  realm  above. 
The  moonlight  slept  in  peace  alone  ; 
The  clouds  afar  aerial  mountains  are, 
Each  star  on  night's  soft  bosom  shone. 
List !  list  !     Hark  !  hark  !  a  melody  mark  ! 
The  music  that  breathes  sweetly,  cull ; 
How  ravishing  sweet  the  sounds  that  greet 
The  ears  !  and  how  beautiful  ! 
"  Irene  !— 't  is  she—"  Come  !  come  !  to  me  !  " 
Cried  lonill — bless'd  the  while. 
A  harp  holds  she,  whose  melody 
Could  win  to  the  pure  e'en  th'  vile  ; 
To  him  she  glides  and  her  voice  abides 
In  strains  sweet  from  above. 
"  I  've  come,  love,  far,  beyond  the  star. 
From  Heaven,  for  thee,  my  love  ! 
God  soon  will  call  !     He  's  good  to  all ; 
The  angels  love  him  so  ! 
Dost  thou  feel  free  to  go  with  me  t " 
"  I  could  not  answer,  no  !  " 


United  'Though  Death  Parted.  49 

What  joy  have  I  beneath  the  sky  ? 

I  've  suffer'd  many  a  year  ! 

"  'T  is  best  for  thee,— come,  haste  with  me, 

God's  loving  call  I  hear. !  " 

Now  on  the  wave  where  winds  talk  grave, 

A  spectre  bark  they  see — 

'T  was  snowy  white — as  fair  and  bright. 

As  sprites  are  wont  to  be. 

Of  those  aboard,  each  did  afford 

A  heavenly  instrument — 

Some  phantom  lutes,  some  phantom  flutes, 

Some  harps  in  beauty  blent. 

They  were  as  fair  a  group  as  e'er 

Leave  Heaven  for  earth  awhile. 

With  friends  afloat,  they  board  the  boat, — 

Each  wore  an  angelic  smile. 

lonill's  mortal  fled,  and  he  of  the  dead. 

Put  on  immortality. 

No  longer  blighted,  forever  united. 

They  sailed  the  eternal  sea. 

The  bark  bore  on  ;  it  seemed  heaven's  dawn, 

When  flowers  sweet  whisper  to  you — 

Each  waving  a  hand,  that  spiritual  band 

All  suddenly  sank  from  view. 


50  Poems  of  the  Plains. 


APOTHEOSIS. 


T^EATH  raised  the  anchor  from  Time's  harbor 
^     low ; 

Your  bark  has  reached  the  untried  shoreless  sea 
Which  we  see  fit  to  name  Eternity. 
But  friends  will  meet  you,  as  you  onward  go, 
With  eyes  all  gladness  and  with  robes  of  snow  — 
Those  long  parted  from,  you  '11  greet  again 
With  smiles,  and  life  will  have  no  pangs  of  pain  ; 
There  healing  streams  through  sacred  valleys  flow. 
In  that  bright  world  bound  by  no  limits  there, 
Where    smoother  shores  hold  calmer  waves  than 

here. 
Where  every  hour  is  fraught  with  danger,  care. 
Where  we  must  part  with  those  we  cherish  dear. 
Then  go  your  way,  above  the  ills  of  time. 
Where  every  path  leads  up  toward  the  sublime. 


The  Maniac,  51 


THE  MANIAC. 


THE  maniac  sprang  from  off  his  bed, 
And  placed  his  hand  upon  his  brow. 
"  I  feel  within,  my  soul  is  dead  ! " 
His  mind  is  wandering  now. — 

"  Fiend  !  open  the  door — unbar  !  unbar  ! 

Why  am  I  chained  by  arm  to  floor  ? — 
But  see,  there  's  one  bright,  shining  star, 

Which  kindly  guards  my  prison  door  ! 

"■  It  stands  a  silent  sentinel,  there  ; 

With  pity  looks  from  its  bright  eye, 
Adown  on  me  in  my  despair — 

Ah  !  there  's  a  serpent  on  the  sky  ! 

"  It  's  crawling,  like  the  crawl  of  Death  ; 

It  coils  ;  now  buries  in  a  cloud  ; 
I  feel  its  poisoned,  fetid  breath  ! 

It  warns  me  of  the  burial  shroud  ! 

"Hark  !  hark  !  I  hear,  I  see  in  the  air. 
Fiends,  demons,  dragons,  and  devils  ! 

Why  tarry  with  me  in  my  despair  ? 
Why  not  off  to  their  wild  revels  ? 

"  But  still  they  stay— behold  !  I  see  !— 
But  this  is  madness,  my  keepers  tell— 

O  !  from  out  this  prison,  free  me  ! 
Why  make  my  living  death  a  hell  ? " 


52  Poems  of  the  Plains, 


THE  SILENT  HERO— GRANT. 

n^EN  thousand  bells  toll  through  the  air, 

The  toil-worn  hero's  soul  has  fled  ! 
The  warrior  of  his  time  lies  there,  • 
Our  statesman  of  his  day  is  dead  ! 

He  loved  not  blood  nor  conquest,  no  ! 

He  warred  that  others  peace  might  have  ; 
He  pitied  e'en  the  fallen  foe — 

The  victor  felt  for  vanquished  brave. 

Few  words  were  his,  but  what  he  said 
Was  golden — wisdom  grand  and  free — 

He  boasted  not — by  deeds  he  led 
His  followers  on  to  victory. 

The  silent  hero,  Grant,  has  gone 

To  that  weird  land,  the  great  Unknown  ! 

We  '11  miss  him  as  we  journey  on. 
Like  some  grand  star  forever  flown  ! 

The  greatest  warrior  of  his  time  ; 

He  lost  no  battles,  such  his  power — 
In  war  with  wizard  art  sublime, 

In  peace,  an  unassuming  flower. 

He  rode  the  tempest  of  the  night — 

The  night  of  war's  dread  darkness  vast, 


The  Silent  Hero— Grant.  53 

Directs  the  storm  !  when  lo  !  't  is  light  ! 
Vanished  the  storm  !  't  is  calm  at  last. 

When  all  lost  hope  he  persevered, 

And  led  his  legions  on  to  war  ; 
Napoleon-like  his  self -faith  cheered, 

And  victory  glowed  before — a  star  ! 

From  Belmont  to  the  Wilderness, 

Prolonged,  one  battle  seemed  the  war  ; 

One  field  of  carnage,  nothing  less. 

Which  ghastly  stretched  for  miles  afar. 

From  battery  to  battlement 

The  volleying  thunder  rent  the  air  ; 

Wing'd  globes  of  death  e^ch  way  were  blent, 
While  bravely  thousands  perished  there. 

Brave  men  on  both  sides.  South  and  North, 
Men  clothed  in  blue,  men  clothed  in  gray, 

For  homes  and  dear  ones  each  went  forth, 
A  sacrifice  that  night  be  day. 

That  night  of  war  be  day  of  peace  ; 

That  sounds  which  now  in  conflict  blend. 
Should  hush — and  when  their  sorrow  cease 

Men's  orisons  to  God  ascend. 

Ah  !  oft  before  the  ramparts,  long. 

Grant  stormed  the  leaguered  wall  full  well ; 

But  lo  !  at  length  it  falls,  though  strong— 
To  him  no  fort  impregnable. 


54  Poems  of  the  Flaijis. 

He  followed  few  set  rules  of  war, 
His  genius  told  him  what  to  do  ; 

Where  all  was  darkness  dread  before, 

His  light  came  shining  'round  and  through. 


His  name  is  reverenced  South  and  North — 
He  hated  not  the  foe  he  fought  ; 

As  loving  parent  dealing  forth 

Chastisement  to  a  child,  he  wrought. 

When  victory  crowned  his  toil  at  last, 
And  Lee  wept  like  a  child  undone, 

He  cautioned  all  his  army  vast, 

To  raise  no  shout  of  triumph,  none. 

When  he  had  crushed  the  Southern  pride. 
And  rebels  asked  :  What  fate  to  come  ? 

He  gave  them  food,  clothes,  steeds  to  ride, 
And  said  :  "  Obey  the  laws,  go  home  !  " 

Though  men  a  monument  may  rear 
High  as  the  heavens  unto  his  name, 

At  Riverside,  o'er  his  sad  bier, 

It  ne'er  can  reach  his  towering  fame. 

He  conquered  all  the  Southern  host, 
He  served  as  ruler  many  years, 

The  flowers  that  shroud  his  grave  almost. 
We  well  may  water  with  our  tears. 


Forgive  this   Tear.  55 

The  plaudits  on  his  funeral  day — 
The  pomp  and  paeans  to  his  name — 

Men's  praise — the  poet's  deathless  lay — 
Meet  guerdon  that  to  save  he  came. 

His  name  shall  live  in  future  lore, 
And  history  shall  his  fame  prolong  ; 

When  kings  and  empires  are  no  more, 
His  fame  shall  live  in  immortal  song. 


FORGIVE  THIS  TEAR. 

"CPORGIVE  !  forgive  !  this  burning  tear, 

Now  wrung  in  memory  from  my  heart- 
In  memory  of  the  past,  so  dear, 

That  far  hath  gone  from  me — a  part 

Of  heaven  1  '11  see  on  earth  no  more —  > 

A  long'd-for  joy  forever  flown, 
Like  some  fair  phantom  we  adore, 

It  mocks  me  with  a  glimpse  alone. 

I  trust  the  golden  days  we  lose, 
Will  bloom  in  beauty  once  again  ; 

I  trust  that  past,  on  which  I  muse, 
Beyond  will  live,  no  more  to  wane. 


56  Poems  of  the  Plains. 


LITTLE  VIDIE.' 

T    ITTLE  Vidie  !  (O  the  sorrow  ! 
^^     O  the  cruel  things  of  time, 
Where  we  ever,  ever  borrow 

From  our  hope  and  faith  sublime  !) 

She  has  gone  !  the  little  maiden 

Who  came  from  Heaven  to  us  awhile — 
And  our  hearts  are  heavy  laden, 
And  we  nevermore  can  smile 

With  the  happy,  happy  gladness 

Of  the  days  that  are  no  more  ; 
And  our  world  is  like  the  madness 

Of  a  sea  without  a  shore. 

O  we  cannot  bear  to  leave  her 
In  the  cold,  damp  earth  alone — 

Where,  O  where,  is  her  retriever. 
Though  her  spirit  now  hath  flown  ! 

Ah  !  the  only  thing  we  borrow 

From  Hope's  garland  brow,  is  this  : 
That  we  meet  her  on  the  morrow. 
Over  where  all  life  is  bliss. 

'  The  niece  of  the  author,  a  precocious  child,  beautiful, 
good,  and  affectionate,  died  June  7,  1883,  in  her  eighth  year, 
of  a  malignant  form  of  diphtheria. 


To  Ida.  57 


TO    LITTLE    AUBREY.' 

r\  WELCOME  !  welcome,  little  stranger, 
^^     Unto  our  happy  home  and  thine  ; 
Art  thou  mortal,  or  a  ranger 
From  a  distant  world  divine  ? 

O  little  angel !  tell  me,  tell  me. 

What  is  thy  mission,  sweet  and  good  ? 

Wilt  thou  remain,  or  wilt  thou  flee 
To  summer  lands  beyond  the  wood  ? 

My  little  son,  could  I  but  teach  thee 
That  which  we  only  learn  through  time. 

No  cloud  should  harm,  that  ofttimes  reach  me  ; 
Thy  life  with  peace  should  be  sublime. 

May  thy  soul  be  ever  lifted 

On  white  wings  above  earth's  sod  ; 

May  thy  mind  be  ever  gifted 

With  the  purest  thoughts  from  God. 


TO  IDA. 

THOU  'rt  absent,  Ida,  and  I  pensive  feel 
The  blow  as  keen  as  woe  e'er  gives  to  weal  \ 
'Though    I    've   not   known   thee   long,   nor   thou 
known'st  me, 
1  The  author's  first  child  (a  boy),  born  August  17,  1883. 


58  Poems  of  the  Plains. 

Thy  loss  me  sorrow  brings,  and  misery. 

Think'st  thou  why  shouldst  thy  absence  thus  me 

move  ? 
Because  in  that  short  time  I  've  learn'd  to  love  ! 
The  flowers  of  hope  are  growing  sad  and  sere, 
The  world  seems  gloomy — all  is  dark  and  drear. 
As  some  bright,  beauteous  star,  lost  in  the  night. 
Leaves  all  in  darkness  where  once  all  was  light, 
Since  thou  'rt  gone,  thus  my  sad  heart  feels  the 

pain, 
Tho'  Hope  faintly  whispers  :  "  You  '11  meet  again  !  " 
Ah,  when  and  where  ! — when  shall  I  greet  thee  ! 

oh! 
What  joy  to  clasp  thy  fair  hand — fair  as  snow  ! 
And  hear  in  silvery  melody  flow 
Thy  voice,  that  thrilled  the  sweet,  sweet  long  ago  ! 
But  why  should  I  feel  sad  ?     'T  is  well  with  thee, 
E'en  though  in  absence  thou  art  far  from  me  ! 
When  thou,  so  fair,  so  lovely,  and  so  good. 
Still  bloomest  sweet  in  the  beauty  of  womanhood  ! 
And  friends  who  dearly  love,  whom  thou  lov'st  dear, 
Do  cluster  'round,  thy  winsome  voice  to  hear  ! 
To  gaze  on  thee — on  thy  rich  beauty,  rare 
And  peerless,  for  where  's  she  that  's  half  so  fair  ! 
There  !  through  the  corridors  of  memory 
I  hear  thy  merry  laugh  ring  gay  and  free  ! 
I  see  thy  dark  eyes  !  lovely  eyes  of  th'  South  ! 
And    thy   sweet,    rich,    warm,    cherry,   wine-kissed 

mouth  ! 
Thy  sweet,  perfect  face,  and  thy  form,  too,  bless  ! — 
Joy  !  't  is  thee  !  complete  in  thy  loveliness  ! 


Reverie.  59 

And  beautiful  girl,  thy  bright  vision  seems 
Far  sweeter  to  me  than  all  other  dreams, 
And  fairer  than  the  fairest  forest  flower. 
Blushing  unharmed  in  its  woodland  bower  ; 
More  lovely  than  the  brightest  diamond  star, 
Breathing  its  beauty  from  high  heaven,  afar  ; 
And  of  all  things  cherished,  pure,  fair,  and  free, 
There  is  naught  so  dear  unto  memory  ; 
And  my  sad,  sick  soul  freely  drinks,  I  vow, 
From  th'  sparkling  fountain  of  thy  beauty  now  ! 
Refresh'd,  refin'd,  and  filled  with  hope  and  love, 
As  th'  wretch  revives  on  whom  smiles  God  above. 


REVERIE. 

'T^HE  picturesque,  wild,  and  glorious,  I  love, — 
'''      Plains,  vales,  and  mountains,  in  fair  Nature's 
dress. 
The  universe,  round,  below,  and  above  ; 

Where  the  breeze  seems  an  angel's  soft  caress — 
Some  spirit  friend,  whose  mission  is  to  bless 
And  inspire  ;  to  dwell  on  themes  for  reverie 

And  speculation,  I  love  ;  and  to  express 
The  thoughts  which  fancy  wakes  ;  when  I  dream 

free, 
Be  we  what  we  may,  beyond  we  learn  life's  mystery  ! 

That  maiden  fair,  we  see,  with  many  a  charm, 
May  once  have  been  a  pearl  beneath  the  sea, 


6o  Poems  of  the  Plains. 

Where  she  was  shielded  from  the  great  gulf,  Harm, 
Which  flows  through  Time  unto  Eternity. 
Ah,  Love  !  who  hath  not  been  thy  votary 

In  Youth's  fond  hour,  when  pleasure  joys  on  high  ! 
Lives  start  'mid  beauty,  love,  and  melody, 

But  Disappointment's  clouds  oft  fret  their  sky — 

Where  rang  the  light  and  joyous  laugh  there  sounds 
the  heavy  sigh. 


Then  what  's  all  beauty  but  a  tempter's  bait  ? 

It  'lures  us  on,  it  leaves  us  all  alone, 
To  muse  upon  the  unforeseen  of  fate — 

To  feel,  where'er  we  live,  in  whate'er  zone. 

We  live  for  what  we  know  not :  then  atone 
For  present  thoughts,  do  we  ;  to  meditate 

Anew  :  till  lost  'midst  wilds  of  gloom,  unknown, 
We  deem  our  lives  too  early  or  too  late — 
Till  Hope  drives  off  Despair,  when  life  seems  sweet 
and  great. 

Oh  !  what  is  life  to  man  ?  and  what  is  man  ? 

Immortal  ?  or  th'  mere  shadow  of  an  hour  ? 
Is  earth  all  ?  or  has  life  a  broader  span — 

Beyond  time,  reaching  with  eternal  power  ? 

The  star  high  hanging  in  heaven's  tower 
May  once  have  been  a  drop  pearled  on  a  rose  ! 

Then  if  a  star  is  but  th'  essence  of  a  flower. 
Will  not  man,  far  the  greatest  life  earth  grows, 
Live   on   beyond    the    grave,   and   find    naught   to 
oppose  ? 


Reverie,  6 1 

Yon  mignonette,  upon  the  river  brink, 

May  be  the  germ  of  life,  the  future  brings, 
Of  one  who  drank  o'  earth's  fountains,   and  will 
drink 

From  those  of  far,  far  greater,  purer  springs  ! 

E'en  now  methinks  I  hear  an  angel's  wings 
In  mid-air  !  guardian  of  this  only  link 

Which  holds  the  mortal  to  immortal  things — 
For  were  it  lost,  a  soul  thereby  would  sink 
Down  in  oblivion's  slime,  and  perish  in  its  rink. 

Thou,  ocean,  who  dost  seem,  for  evermore. 

One  vast  live  heart  that  beats  its  sides  afar, 
What  mission  's  thine  ?  what  God  dost  thou  adore  ? 

At  times,  as  peaceful  as  heaven's  tranquil  star  ; 

At  times,  with  th'  Eternal  thou  dost  seem  to  war. 
Great  deep  !   where  mysteries  ever  endless  seem 

In  each  unchecked,  upheaving,  foaming  scaur — 
Where  bright,  the  stars,  behold  their  mirror'd  beam, 
'Neath    heaven's    projecting   power,    tell  me    thy 
cherish'd  dream  ! 

Full  well,  old  giant !  far  from  the  first  hast  thou 

Thy  secrets  kept  through  time's   long  flight  and 
dread. 
Through  many  ages  past,  on,  on  till  now. 

When  thou  entomb'd  the  lost,  th'  remember'd  fled; 

Mysterious  flow,  where  wild  sea  monsters  wed, 
I  read  in  thy  weird  face,  as  in  the  stars  : 

That  earth  's  not  all  to  th'  living  nor  the  dead. 


62  Poems  of  the  Plains. 

Thus  Heaven  in  mercy  unto  man  unbars 
Tokens  of  life  eternal,  beyond  time's  wars. 

When  we  look  through  the  gloom  of  misty  years, 
Th'  past  seems  a  world  lost  we  mourn  and  admire, 

'Though  the  now  be  night,  day  yonder  appears  ! 
And  hope — all  we  most  ardently  desire — 

Illum'd  by  the  glory  of  her  unquench'd  fire. 

Aye,  Hope  's  a  sylph  to  whom  all  beauty  is  given ; 

A  perfect  being  whereto  we  should  aspire  ; 

She  comes  at  twilight,  at  morn,  noon  and  even. 

Breathing  from  her  bright  robes  the  sweet  perfumes 
of  heaven. 
1876. 


LOVE. 


'T^HERE  's  love  that  's  like  the  meteor- 
Endearing  while  its  lasts — 
That  flashes,  and  for  evermore 
Dies — darkness  then  o'ercasts. 

Yet,  like  th'  sweet,  fix'd  star  of  night, 
A  love  far,  far  more  dear,  I  see  ! ' 

Pure,  beautiful,  and  grand,  and  bright  ! 
Glowing  ever — eternally  ! 


A   Secret  of  the  Sea.  63 


A  SECRET  OF  THE  SEA. 

n^  HE  god  of  day  had  sunk  to  rest, 

Afar  in  his  hesperianbed, 
And  night  walk'd  forth  in  darkness  dress'd— 
A  mourner  for  bright  hours  now  dead. 

Dark  clouds  came  o'er  the  deep,  profound, 
The  wild  winds  moan'd  a  solemn  lay, 

And  ghosts  that  nightly  wander  round, 
Pass'd  sadly  on  their  restless  way. 

The  honest  wrecker  of  Laclare, 

To  ocean  gazing,  o'er  the  lea, 
Shudder'd,  while  breathing  forth  a  prayer 

For  the  stranger  far  out  at  sea. 

Great  bolts  of  thunder  loudly  crash'd, 
And  living  lightning  ran  the  sky. 

And  here  and  there  it  angry  flash'd, 

Like  some  fierce  demon's  vengeful  eye. 

Time  wing's  his  constant  flight — now  wan. 
The  blast  strays  homeward  o'er  the  deep. 

The  weary  clouds  move  slowly  on, 

In  his  deep  cave  the  storm  doth  sleep. 

Far  on  the  sea,  with  broken  spars. 
Where  mad  waves  beat  the  lurid  sky, 

There  toss'd  a  corse  beneath  the  stars. 
Under  the  wild  moon's  redden'd  eve. 


64  Poems  of  the  Plains. 

And  here,  't  is  said,  e'er  since  at  night, 

Rises  a  fearful,  frenzied  cry, 
When  e'en  the  bravest  wake  in  fright, 

And  gaze  at  th'  distant,  shadowy  sky. 

Where  pale  and  sad,  far  on  the  sea, 
A  ghastly  ghost  glides  slowly  by. 

Shrieking  aloud  and  mournfully 

For  a  boon  which  Heaven  seems  to  deny. 

Oh  !  what  unhappy  wretch  was  he 

Who  braved  e'en  ocean,  Heaven,  and  Hell- 
When  night  had  veil'd  in  shades  the  sea, 
And  loos'd  the  angry  storm  as  well  ! 

Ah  !  who  that  one  remains  to  be 
A  tale  untold  by  star  or  wave — 

But  shrouded  in  deep  mystery 
The  secret  of  the  sea's  deep  grave. 


THE  CHILD  TO  ITS  MOTHER. 

"\ /[  OTHER  !  't  is  thee,  thy  erring  child, 
^^     Would  thank  for  thy  past  deeds  of  love 
Thou  cared'st  for  me  till  reason  smil'd. 
Like  morning  in  the  deeps  above  ! 


Admonished.  65 

Like  astral  fire  which  lights  the  vault 

Of  heaven,  when  sad  Night  mourning  wears, 

Though  others  frown'd,  thou  saw'st  no  fault : 
If  so,  then  e'en  that  fault  was  theirs. 

Thy  friendship  's  number'd  by  no  hour, 

But  years  will  ever  find  it  true  ; 
It  lives  like  the  immortal  flower, 

As  ever  fragrant,  fair  and  new. 

And  he  who  guides  the  eagle's  flight 

Where  man's  short  sight  doth  blindly  fail, 

Will  thee  reward  in  world  of  light, 
Beyond  this  dark  and  dreary  vale. 

Mother  !  the  name  is  sweet  to  me — 

A  light  on  silent  memory's  shore. 
Which  beacons  from  my  infancy 

Along  life's  wandering  path  before  ! 


ADMONISHED. 

A    PHANTASY. 


I 


N  the  wonderful  realm  of  Thought, 
On  the  shores  of  a  mystical  stream, 
I  once  for  pure  happiness  sought— 
The  happiness  of  which  we  dream. 


66  Poems  of  the  Plains. 

There  I  sought  in  pensive  sadness, 
For  the  lov'd  and  beautiful  dead  ; 

I  was  well-nigh  unto  madness, 

When  thinking,  "  Where  hath  she  fled  ?  " 

The  stream  to  a  tarn  in  the  wold — 
To  a  tarn  of  grandeur  and  gloom — 

Led  me — where  the  air  was  cold, 

And  where  echoed  a  sound  of  doom. 

"  Where  !  where  !  is  the  beautiful  dead  ? " 
I  shrieked  in  the  ear  of  Night — 

But  my  voice  and  its  echo  fled  ; 
I  trembled  with  feeling  of  fright. 

"  Alethea,  sweet  being  of  Truth, 
Come,  come  to  my  longing  eyes  ! 

O  come  !  for  thou  hast  feelings  of  ruth  ; 
Come  down  from  thy  home  in  the  skies  !  " 

Hush  !  hark  !  a  sound  !  a  low,  soft  sound. 
As  though  a  zephyr  breathed  close  by  ! 

And  instantly  I  turned  around. 
To  meet  Alethea's  loving  eye. 

"  How  heavenly  fair  thy  form  and  face  ! 

When  of  the  earth — yes  ! — thou  wast  mine  ! 
And  still  thou  art  !  for  I  can  trace 

That  love  so  beautiful — divine." 

"  Follow  !  "  she  breathes — I  do — she  moves 
Like  a  dream  that  floats  at  eventide, 

O'er  that  sweet  bower  where  dwell  the  loves, 
Far  from  the  world  and  its  hollow  pride. 


On  the  Moonlit    Wave.  67 

A  sound  as  when  the  air  is  hush'd, 

Rises  a  sudden,  sullen  blast  ; 
Now  rose,  as  down  the  river  rush'd, 

A  hideous  throng  of  phantoms  past. 

Alethea  cried — her  voice  a  tome  : 

"  Love  !  see  the  danger  thou  wast  in  ! 

*T  is  ever  thus  with  those  who  roam 
The  pathways  of  the  world  of  sin  ! 

"  Be  good  !  "  she  said  ;  a  smile  she  wore — 
Then  floated  upward  to  that  world 

Where  bloom  Love's  flowers  forevermore, 
And  Supernal  Beauty  is  impearl'd. 

1876. 


ON  THE   MOONLIT  WAVE. 

/^UT  on  the  moonlit  wave  joyously  we  sail, 
^■''^      My  love  and  I,  she  fondly  by  my  side  ; 
Our  cheeks  are  fann'd  by  the  gently-breathing  glle, 
As  onward  softly,  sweetly  now  we  glide. 

As  a  young  bud  dreams  of  the  future  flower, 
Thus  happy  we  dream  as  onward  we  roam, 

While  'neath  the  bright   awning  of   Hope's   sweet 
bower. 
We  on  are  wafting  to  our  happy  home. 


68  Poems  of  the  Plains. 

As  when  Cupid,  aerial  passing  on, 

Whispers  of  love  in  a  beauty's  pink  ear,    - 

While  she  lies  asleep  in  the  early  dawn. 

Wreathes  a  smile  on  her  lips  with  thoughts  so 
dear  : 


With  astral  eyes,  lustrous,  scintillant,  dark, 
Thus  my  darling  smiles  to  whate'er  I  say, 

For  love  sweetly  guides  our  moving  bark, 

And  Hope  points  the  bright  and  beauteous  way  ! 


A  BEAUTIFUL  MYSTERY' 

ATSTHAT  beautiful  being  was  this 

Afloat  in  the  welkin  there  ? — 
An  angel  from  the  realm  of  bliss. 
Come  down  to  a  world  of  care  ? 


'  Ripley,  Ohio,  October  30,  1874. 
Yesterday  evening,  between  ten  and  eleven  o'clock,  there 
appeared  suspended  between  heaven  and  earth  almost  a  fac- 
simile of  one  of  Raphael's  angels,  white  as  alabaster.  The 
wings  were  outspread  imploringly,  and  its  evolutions  were  as 
rapid  and  as  beautiful  as  a  bird  circling  in  mid-air.  Over 
150  of  our  best  citizens,  ladies  and  gentlemen,  were  eye-" 
witnesses  of  this  singular  spectacle,  and  gazed  with  admira- 
tion and  awe. — Cincinnati  Gazette. 


Vennova.  69 

Did  it  come  of  its  own  will,  free, 

Cheerfully  down  to  this  drear  clime  ? 

Or,  lost  on  the  waves  of  Eternity, 
Was  it  wash'd  to  the  shores  of  time  ? 

It  came  and  vanish'd  like  a  tone 

Of  melody  we  hear  in  dreams, 
On  summer  eves,  when  not  one  lone 

Cold  breath  blows  o'er  the  happy  streams. 

Favor'd  were  they  who  caught  a  glance 

Of  this  fair  child  of  mystery, 
As  beautiful  as  the  nymphs  that  dance. 

At  night  on  the  moonlit  sea. 


VENNOVA. 

r~\  NCE,  on  as  bright  and  fair  a  day 
^^     As  ever  mortal  eyes  behold, 
When  Nature  to  her  God  did  pray 
Her  thanks  for  mercies  manifold, 

Fair  Vennova  and  I  both  moved 
Beneath  the  clear  cerulean  heaven  ; 

Beside*  the  crystal  lake  we  roved — 

To  love  both  our  fond  hearts  were  given. 


70  Poems  of  the  Plains. 

Around  the  lake  on  every  side, 

Mystical  shadows  veil'd  the  air  ; 
Some  cherish'd  secret  seemed  to  hide 

In  mystery  eternal  there. 

Until  Eve  in  her  beauty  was  born  ; 

With  veil  of  twilight  o'er  her  face  ; 
We  seemed  as  happy  as  fair  young  Morn, 

When  smiling  to  view  from  her  hiding-place. 

Swiftly,  sorrowfully,  then  a  sadness, 
Fell  on  our  raptured  souls,  so  light. 

That  eftsoons  nigh  unto  madness 
Led  with  melancholy  blight. 

"  Seest  thou  yon  star  so  lovely  bright  ?  " 

Pensively,  Vennova  to  me  said. 
"  Yes  !  dear  one  !  but  why  so  sad  to-night  ? " 

I  whisper'd — she  droop'd  her  lovely  head. 

As  tears  from  her  soul-rapturing  eyes. 
Fell  like  the  melting  dews  of  even — 

"  Farewell !  my  love  beyond  the  skies, 

When  that  star  wanes,  I  '11  be  in  heaven  !  " 

The  star  grew  dim — my  lov'd  one  pale, 
She  by  the  loveliest  beauty  bless'd  ! 

I  curs'd  high  Heaven  with  frantic  wail ; 
She  meekly  passed  from  earth  to  rest. 


The  Chicago  Fire.  71 


THE  CHICAGO  FIRE. 

CHICAGO  !  great  city  of  the  West ! 
All  that  wealth,  all  that  power  invest ; 
Thou  sprang'st  like  magic  from  the  sand, 
As  touch'd  by  the  magician's  wand, 
On  Michigan's  surf-beaten  shore. 
Where  dashing  waves  and  wild  winds  roar. 
Where  that  which  Nature's  wilds  obscured, 
When  found  great  enterprise  allured. 
And  soon  the  wilderness  of  the  plains. 
Gave  place  to  civilized  domains. 
Where  roamed  the  savage,  wild  bedight. 
There  settled  wealth,  and  power,  and  might. 
Improvements  on  improvements  grew  ; 
Excelled  by  none,  thy  equals  few. 
Thou  stood'st  a  monument  of  what 
Real  enterprise  and  worth  had  wrought. 
Alas  for  man  !  his  works  are  frail, 
Uncertain  as  the  fitful  gale  ; 
To  thee  came  an  insidious  hour. 
Which  swept  away  with  fiendish  power 
The  gather'd  wealth  of  many  years. 
Leaving  sad  hearts  and  bitter  tears. 
The  fire-fiends,  with  hell-born  delight, 

1  The  great  Chicago  fire  began  late  on  Sunday  evening,  Oc- 
tober 8,  1871.  and  terminated  the  following  Wednesday  ; 
destroying  in  the  meantime  many  million  dollars  of  property, 
*id  many  lives. 


y2  Poems  of  the  Plains. 

Did  marshal  up  their  hosted  might, 
And  fiercer  grew,  and  called  for  more, 
And  wider  spread  with  deaf'ning  roar. 
The  flame,  a  wild  and  fierce  simoon, 
And  now  a  raging  mad  typhoon, 
Destroy'd  the  buildings  with  a  breath 
Of  his  hot  breathings— breathing  death  ! 
With  cottages,  gray,  white,  and  brown. 
Palatial  mansions  crumbled  down 
And  melted,  as  the  hot  fires  won. 
Like  snow  beneath  a  torrid  sun. 
With  all  the  rest,  did  perish  there 
.  A  mine  of  all  the  fine  arts  rare  ; 
Releas'd  from  prison-house,  of  clay. 
Too,  many  a  soul  winged  its  far  way. 
The  living  flame,  leap'd  high,  afar. 
As  though  the  vault  of  heaven  't  would  mar 
Now  madly  sweeps  with  angry  glare. 
Salvation  !  where  art  thou  ?  Oh  !  where  ? 
Fair  women,  who  had  ne'er  known  want. 
Now  see  the  Wolf,'  grim,  gray,  and  gaunt  ; 
And  she  who  ne'er  had  felt  a  care. 
Runs  here  and  there  in  wild  despair. 
The  merchant,  once  the  millionaire, 
Needy  and  maniacal  stare. 
Everywhere  the  hot  flame  heats  ; 
All  grades  of  mortals  fill  the  streets  : 
Here  pass'd  the  maiden,  chaste  and  pure, 
There  some  wild  rake's  fair  paramour  ; 
Here,  sad  the  man  of  fortune's  wreck, 
'  Poverty. 


The  Chicago  Fire.  73 

There  culprits  writh'd  and  hung  by  neck  ; 

And  here  forlorn  a  wretch,  now  crazed, 

Sought  peace  and  rest  where  Death  but  gazed. 

Another,  frenzied,  ran  through  flame, 

Loudly  shrieking  some  lov'd  one's  name. 

The  broad  lake  bore,  in  wild  distress, 

Brave  men  and  women's  loveliness. 

For  days  and  nights  the  fire-fiends  raged, 

No  mortal  means  their  force  assuaged. 

Destruction  did  no  atom  wane, 

Till  Heaven,  in  pity,  sent  the  rain. 

'T  was  then  it  waver'd  and  grew  less — 

Then,  then,  for  man  his  God  to  bless. 

Now  gird  thy  loins,  the  demons  rest, 

Thou  Garden  City  of  the  West ; 

Thou  hast  been — thou  again  shalt  be 

The  goal  of  all — 't  is  thine,  in  thee  : 

A  Phoenix,  in  thy  ashes,  thou 

Shalt  spring  in  glory  from  the  now. 


p'4  Poems  of  the  Plains. 


THE   RESTLESS   WANDERER.^ 

'  I  ^HE  Morn  is  up,  in  all  her  fair  array  ; 

There  's   on  the  breeze    a  floating   murmur 
borne  ; 
Now  Nature  weeps  her  silent  tears  away, 

And  hands  to  Night  the  mantle  she  has  worn. 
The  lark  's  aroused,  and  sweet  his  winging  horn  ! 

Far  in  the  East,  the  morning  star  appears  ! 

The  mist  fades  from  the  yellow  fields  of  corn. 
As  Phoebus  brightly  comes  ;  the  hearts  he  cheers 
Are  many  :  Darkness  hath  flown  from  the  foe  he 
fears. 

Eve  comes  !  now  slumbers  sweet  the  curtain'd  Vale  : 

In  Nature's  bosom,  th'  Lake  is  hushed  in  sleep, 
The  owl  hoots  to  the  moon  a  melancholy  tale. 

^  Morning  and  evening.  A  night  storm.  The  seeming 
promise  of  happiness  associated  with  a  beautiful  morning, 
is  felt  by  all  who  have  an  innate  love  for  the  aesthetic.  But 
as  time  passes  on  only  to  bring,  as  it  often  does,  misfortune, 
we  look  back  to  see  that  this  very  beauty  was  a  mask,  as  it 
were,  for  misery  to  come. 

Chalporth,  a  man  of  powerful  intellect,  a  sensitive  and 
sympathetic  nature,  with  a  great  love,  in  the  highest  sense,  for 
the  perfect  in  the  beautiful,  wandered  over  the  world  in  dili- 
gent search  of  the  genial  spirit  he  hoped  at  first  to  find.  At 
length,  after  spending  a  lifetime  of  fruitless  search  for  his 
ideal,  he  despaired  ;  abandoned  his  undertaking,  when  his 
liberated  soul  soared  to  the  arms  of  the  Eternal. 


The  Restless  Wanderer.  75 

'Twixt    leaves   of  trees,    dews   o'   twilight  softly 
seep — 

The  Breeze  oft  soaring  lowly  now  doth  creep  ; 
The  Storm  is  resting  in  the  forest  cave, 

There  husbands  strength,  to  future  ruin  reap  ; 
The  Wind  is  softly  whispering  to  the  Wave-- 
The  Blast  is  hushed,  but  erelong  he  will  madly  rave. 

It  later  grows  !  and  Night  now  reigns  supreme  ! 

Stars  silently  come,  and  lovingly  they  meet. 
Forth  Luna  walks  :    hark  !    't  is  the  night-bird's 
scream. 
There  softly  floats  along  one  cloudy  sheet — 
I  hear  the  sad  sea  dirging  low  and  sweet  ! 
A  wondrous  lay — a  grand,  pathetic  tune. 

Now  spirits  hover  near  lov'd  hearts  that  beat 
On  earth  to  guard  their  sleep.     'T  is  now  night's 

noon  ! 
When  Fairies  dance  on  clouds  and  Peris  greet  the 
moon. 

Fair  Dian  wanes — a  cloud  obscures  her  face — 

The  mutt'ring  Thunder  growls  his  savage  threats. 
A  mighty  storm  is  coming,  and  apace 

Each  element  of  Nature  more  power  begets. 

Now  lightning  sparkles  in  bright  zigzag  jets  ; 
Cloudy  phantoms  grimly  dance  'neath  heaven's  bar. 

The  rain,  once  dropping,  now  a  torrent  sets — 
Now  lightning,  chain'd  and  fork'd,  shoots  near  and 

far, 
And  living  storms  fling  thunderbolts  from  star  to 
star. 


76  Poems  of  the  Plains. 

Both  night  and  storm  hath  fled  !  the  sleeping  wake  ! 

And  hand  in  hand  now  forth  come  Love  and 
Joy! 
The  songsters  sweetly  carol  from  the  brake, 

And  all  seems  beautiful !.    But  to  decoy, 

Now  Misery  comes  fair  Happiness  to  destroy. 
Star-soul'd  Chalporth  fell  victim  t' misery's  bane, 

When  young,  a  man  in  mind  e'en  when  a  boy  : 
A  pilgrim  from  his  birth.  Nature  his  fane — 
He  seeks,  but  seeks  in  vain,  while  his  years  on- 
ward wane. 

He  sought  a  genial  soul,  but  none  could  find  ; 

His  spirit  from  the  loftiest  life  had  sprung  ; 
Expecting  more  than  those  he  met  enshrin'd. 

Like  him,  all  such,  whate'er  the  sex  among, 

Are  led  to  mania,  if  they  die  not  young. 
For  flesh  and  spirit  ever  are  at  war. 

No  pen  can  truly  write,  nor  tell  no  tongue. 
The  gloom  that  shrouds  that  life,  full  sore. 
That  saw  each  flower  o'  hope  decay  when  scarce  a 
blush  it  bore. 

Chalporth  had  travel'd  much,  through  many  lands  ; 

Imbibed  from  Pleasure's  sweetest  founts,  to  lose 
The    phantom    following  ;     then    tried    wedlock's 
bands  ; — 

But  all  these  failed  happiness  to  infuse. 

While  'midst  life's  darkest  shadows  he  did  muse, 
Alone,  one  came,  an  angel  from  afar. 

To  minister  to  him,  now  a  recluse  ; 


The  Restless  Wanderer.  77 

To  aid  him  mount  to  Heaven's  celestial  bar — 
'Midst  life's  dark  clouds  the  faint,   'though  soli- 
tary star  ! 


Her  stay  was  short  :  for  jealous  eyes  did  spy 

Them  hidden  in  the  bower  with  fair  love  fraught. 
The  demon,  Darkness,  hover'd  in  the  sky. 

His  damp  wings  flapp'd  despair  and  Hope  was 

naught  ; 
All  her  scintillations  his  fierce  jaws  caught — 
He  swallow'd  as  new  and  tender  snow-flakes 

Are  swallow'd  by  th'    remorseless    Sea.      Thus 
wrought 
The  fiend — o'er  ruins  chuckling  ;  as  in  wakes 
Of  shipwrecks.  Death  laughs  at  shivering  ghosts  he 
sportive  makes. 


His  spirit  weep'd  within  for  his  sad  heart's 

Deep  misery,  which  well  knew  that   Hope  had 
fled. 
A  desert  waste  man's  life,  when  she  departs. 

Much  of  life's  path  is  through    a    wood  where 

dread, 
Grim  ogres  rise  to  flee  before  the  tread, 
Of  many,  far  ;  while  others  do  despair, 

And  feel  that  hope  is  number'd  with  the  dead. 
But  lo  !  in  heaven,  behold  that  angel  there  ! 
Who  cries  :  "  Beyond,  Hope  still  lives,  in  perfec- 
tion fair  !  " 


78  Poems  of  the  Plains. 

Behold  the  Pyramids  !  relics  of  long  ago  ; 

Each  towering  toward  heaven  a  glist'ning  head. 
Where  fleecy  clouds  dream  round,  above,  below — 

Peacefully  slumbering  in  soft  aerial  bed, 

Ere  called  by  Nature  their  bright  tears  to  shed. 
The  Pyramids  !  monuments  of  mummied  kings, 

Where  the  imprison'd  blast  howls  o'er  the  dead. 
And  melancholy  ghosts  whom  Misery  stings — 
Each  earth-spent,  wasted  life,  on  memory's  track 
he  flings.  . 

Chalporth  had  seen  the  Pyramids  sublime, 

Seen    Nature's    mighty   wonders  throughout  th' 
world — 
In  every  nation,  country,  land,  and  clime. 

Had  wander'd   where'er    Time  hath    wings  un- 
furled : 
Had  watch'd  the  mighty  avalanche,  as  it  hurl'd 
Down  in  the  flowery  vale — when  in  its  maw. 

Went  all  the  loveliness  that  once  impearl'd, 
Or  fell  a  shapeless  mass  'neath  its  demon  paw  : 
Thus  swiftly  pass  earth's  fruits  away.     The  Alps 
he  saw. 

Saw  the  Rocky  and  other  mountains.     Vast  forms, 
Rising,  like  giant  phantoms,  man  to  fright  ; 

Triumphant  conquerors  of  mightiest  storms — 
Storms  cloth'd  in  the  armor  of  day  and  night, 
Which  with  great  thunderbolts  do  vainly  fight. 

Here  Nature  shames  the  greatest  works  of  art, 
In  all  that  's  grand  and  sublime  unto  the  sight — 


The  Restless  Wanderer.  79 

Which  to  the  soul  ambitron  doth  impart, 
Inspiring  it  to  fulfill  the  dictates  of  the  heart. 

"  A  man  may  smile  and  be  a  villain  still," 
A  truth  experience  often  calls  to  mind  : 
The  belle's  proud  breast  an  aching  heart  may  fill, 
E'en   while   she   reigns   the  queen    of    beauty  ; 
kind 
She  may  be,  but  ah  !  too  vain.     Thus  we  find 
Th'  Wanderer — th'  proud  victim  of  circumstance— 

Within  his  heart  his  ideal  he  enshrin'd  ; 
Cherishing  a  wish  he  hid  from  every  glance, 
Though   roaming   plains  or  mountains,  or   in  the 
fane  or  dance. 

One  other  thing  also  would  make  him  bless'd, 

He  thought  ;  and  yet  that  this  could  ever  be 
He  little  hoped  ;  and  still  that  wish  his  rest, 

His  soul  disturbed,  as  mighty  storm  the  sea. 

He  long'd  from  all  restraints  existence  free. 
To  be  a  real  plurality,  and,  clear 

Retain  his  individuality. 
So  that  with  each  and  all  his  friends  held  dear, 
He  could  be  e'er,  at  once,  though  miles   did    in- 
terfere. 

'Though  he  loved  Nature  long,  thus  time  did  kill. 
With  whom  his  being  moved  with  impulse  free  ; 

Yet  she  tired  his  soul  when  it  drank  its  fill. 
As  the  alluring  charms  of  revelry 
Did  satiate — a  honey-laden  bee. 


8o  Poems  of  the  Plains. 

Not  so  a  genial  soul — that  presence  bright — 

Then  earth-life  's  a  dream  of  heaven,  fair  to  see  ! 
Of  which  sun,  moon,  stars  are  concentered  light, 
Without   which  mortal's  world   would  ever   be  in 
night. 

And  Chalporth  wearied  of  the  world  and  fled 
T'  Solitude,  which  he  his  companion  made  ; 

Souglit  Nature  out  and  on  her  grandeur  fed  ; 
But  all  her  pleasures  like  the  rest  did  fade — 
Of  heaven's  bliss  earth's  joys  are  but  the  shade  ; 

Such  the  Almighty's  will.     By  His  bequeath 

Chalporth  reach'd  th'  land  where  life  in  love  's 
array'd  ; 

A  land  where  sorrow  's  not,  nor  doubt,  nor  death  ; 

A  land  fairer  than  "  Love's  young  dream,"  sweeter 
than  th'  rose's  breath. 
1875. 


THE  HAUNTED  LAKE. 

Ere  Heavenly  Phoebus  wakes  the  morn    ' 

With  amber  rays  in  beauty  born. 

While  yet  the  zephyrs  bear  along 

The  sweetest  notes  of  night-birds'  song. 

While  Cynthia  rides  in  glowing  car 

Past  fleecy  cloud  and  lovely  star, 

Fair  Mabel  rising  from  her  bed. 

Flushed  with  sweet  dreams  now  scarcely  fled, 


The  Haunted  Lake.  8 1 

Trips  lightly  through  her  marble  halls— 
Whilst  th'  nightingale  his  love-mate  calls, 
Out  where  the  starlight  gently  falls. 
Her  auburn  tresses  long  are  streaming — 
Her  sweet  eyes  tell  her  spirit's  dreaming. 
The  connoisseur  her  form  approves  ; 
With  the  carriage  of  a  Grace  she  moves  ; 
The  brightest  intellect  all  trace, 
In  her  pure,  sweet,  and  beauteous  face — 
Her  charms  do  rival  love's  own  queen, 
Her  beauty  e'en  Psyche's,  I  ween. 
Noble  as  th'  looks  of  this  sweet  lass, 
Their  peerlessness  doth  not  surpass 
The  love  and  sympathy  she  bears   ^ 
For  those  that  suffer  woes  and  cares  : 
Her  hand  e'er  reached  to  the  distressed, 
Her  beauty  is  her  soul  expressed. 
O'er  th'  lawn  she  glides,  a  sprite  of  bliss. 
Blushing,  feeling  the  zephyr's  kiss  ; 
Her  ruby  lips  are  wreathed  in  smiles. 
Pure — innocent — all  void  of  guiles. 
Through  eglantine  and  asphodel. 
Where  soft  th'  fountain  water  fell  ; 
Her  friend,  the  Breeze,  a  gallant  true. 
The  shrubbery  parts  as  she  moves  through. 
Her  eyes  as  blue  as  heaven  above. 
Mirror  her  heart  in  beams  of  love  ; 
She  stops  at  the  lake  whose  bosom  still 
Reflects  star,  moon,  and  mighty  hill — 
Romantic  mirror  marked  with  trace 
Of  Nature's  God  and  Nature's  face. 


82  Poems  of  the  Plains. 

Why  leaves  the  beauty  her  soft  pillow  ! 
Why  seeks  the  lakelet's  mimic  billow, 
Ere  Day  has  come  on  wings  of  light ! 
While  Silence  walks  the  paths  of  night ! — 
Why  loves  she  at  such  hour  to  rove, 
Morn  still  dreams  in  her  bower  above  ! 
Onward  impell'd  by  mystic  power, 
She  seeks  the  lake  at  this  lone  hour. 
Her  vows  to  keep,  oh,  sacred  duty  ! 
This  lovely  girl  with  wealth  and  beauty — 
Next  morn  the  peerless  bride  to  be 
Of  one  she  worships  to  idolatry — 
Wishes  to  feel  the  mystic  powers 
Which  Nature  wields  in  these  soft  hours — 
The  hours  that  give,  while  fair  Faith  reigns. 
Fond  Fancy's  sweet  ^olian  strains — 
The  hours  of  night  Death's  brother.  Sleep, 
Doth  best  his  faith  with  Nature  keep — 
When  th'  silent  slumberer's  spirit  roams, 
To  study  Nature's  ancient  tomes, 
Or  whisper  fondly  in  the  ear 
Of  some  far  distant  one  that 's  dear — 
When  e'en  the  forest  round  the  lake 
A  living  presence  seems  to  take. 
And  in  its  whisperings  seems  to  tell 
That  round  our  very  being  dwell 
Spirits  of  th'  dear  departed,  true. 
Near  by  in  the  breeze  that  sips  the  dew — 
Angels  of  light  from  homes  above, 
Whose  presence  tells  their  yearning  love. 
The  Lake  which  oft  in  childhood's  hours, 


The  Haunted  Lake.  83 

Saw  Mabel  cull  its  shore's  wild  flowers, 

Beholds  her  now  'neath  th'  starry  sheen, 

In  her  fond  prime,  sweet  beauty's  queen  ; 

Out  from  the  past  she  blooms  this  hour, 

A  bud  developed  to  the  lovely  flower. 

A  sigh  of  love,  heav'd  deep  and  dear. 

Oft  sweetly  melts  into  a  tear, 

Which  brightly  glows  through  flowing  tress — 

Tresses  that  do  the  lips  caress  ; 

Conflicting  feelings  in  her  breast 

Disturb  her  thus  though  she  is  bless'd — 

Hush  !  soft !  a  sound  breaks  on  her  ear  ! — 

Hath  angel  like  her  aught  to  fear  ? 

A  knight  and  steed  come  into  view 

Just  where  the  flowers  their  petals  strew. 

It  is  !  oh  !  can  it  be  of  all 

He  whose  presence  e'er  doth  call 

Up  joy,  and  wakes,  her  looks  confess, 

Her  world  to  one  of  happiness  ! — 

Where  dearest  wish  is  gratified. 

And  hope  is  ever  by  her  side  ! 

'T  is  he  !  and  ne'er  'mid  weal  or  woe, 

Did  braver  knight  than  Don  Raldo, 

For  Beauty's  claim  combat  the  foe. 

He,  too,  awakens  in  the  night. 

Nor  waits  the  tarrying  day-god's  light. 

But  mounts  his  steed  and  rides  away 

'Neath  the  pale  stars  and  Dian's  ray  ; 

And  though  he  hath  no  place  in  mind 

To  journey  to,  he  rides  to  find 

Relief  from  feelings,  restless,  ill, 


84  Poems  of  the  Plains. 

While  bright  the  'luring  vale  and  hill 

Are  lit  by  moon  and  stars,  as  dawn — 

His  heart  leads  him,  unconscious,  on 

Where  doth  abide  without  a  peer, 

The  reigning  belle  both  far  and  near — 

She  who,  when  few  short  hours  have  died, 

Will  be  his  young  and  beauteous  bride. 

They  meet — these  two  who  love  so  well — 

Life  breathes  of  heaven  and  cares  dispel  • 

And  they,  apace,  within  a  boat 

On  lake's  broad  bosom  sweetly  float  ; 

Contentment  dwells  in  their  warm  souls, 

And  joy  her  pleasures  now  unfolds. 

But  see  !  dark  clouds  are  threatening  war, 

And  dimly  glows  each  red-lit  star 

From  heaven's  dark  vault ;  the  thunder  growls. 

Fierce  coming  on  the  tempest  howls. 

At  last !  to  th'  happy  two  comes  care — 

Their  danger  's  known  too  late.     Despair 

Assails  the  boat  from  stern  to  prow. 

Where,  where  is  she,  sweet  Mercy,  now  ? 

The  bark  is  o'erturned  by  a  wave — 

Now  lightning  licks  its  watery  grave — 

Beautiful  Mabel  and  Don  Raldo 

Float  o'er  the  waves — the  storm  doth  grow — 

They  struggle  well — O  Heaven  them  save  ! — 

They  vanish,  and  beneath  a  wave  ! 


Ere  from  the  skies  the  stars  have  flown, 
While  nymphs  to  rove  'neath  nioon  are  prone, 


Arion.  85 

And  wood-fays  in  the  leafy  boughs 
In  secret  plight  their  sweetest  vows, 
And  Halcyon  broods  o'er  the  wave, 
And  Echo  whispers  from  the  cave^ 
Before  Day  doth  on  Darkness  break, 
Two  phantom  lovers  sail  the  lake. 


ARION/ 


C  WEET  songster  of  the  olden  time, 
^     Thy  lyre  was  tuned  to  lovely  lays, 
Thy  rapturing  melody  and  rhyme ' 
Was  grandest  of  the  bygone  days. 

When  'midst  the  corsairs  on  the  wave. 
Who  for  the  gold  thou  didst  possess 

Destin'd  thee  to  a  watery  grave, 

How  sweetly  did  thy  song-powers  bless ! 

But  one  request  thou  madest  of  them — 
Who  could  refuse  that  simple  boon  ? — 

To  play,  ere  they  to  death  condemn, 
One  only,  lovely,  farewell  tune. 

1  A  poet  and  musician  of  Methymna,  in  Lesbos,  said  to  have 
lived  in  the  reign  of  Periander,  ruler  of  Corinth,  about  600 

B.C. 


5  Poems  of  the  Plains. 

Thou  play'd'st,  and  all  were  charmed  around, 
As  though  with  harps  were  angels  near ; 

And  trusting  to  that  heavenly  sound, 
Far  out  thou  sprang'st  to  disappear 

Beneath  the  wave — to  rise  again — 
By  charmed  dolphin  borne  along  ; 

Well,  thou  didst  worship  at  the  fane, 
The  sweet  enchanting  fane  of  song. 


BETHLEHEM'S  STAR. 

A    SONNET. 

'T^HIS  is  the  happy  month  and  merry  morn, 
^        When    Bethlehem's  bright  star    so    sweetly 
came, 
And  shed  throughout  the  world  a  wondrous  flame. 
Which  banished  shadows  from  the  earth  forlorn. 
Peace,  peace  to  men,  the  Infant  Christ  is  born  ! 
The  gonfalon  of  glories  of  the  skies, 
All  evil  things  of  every  world  defies. 
No  longer  need  the  lowest  wretch  now  mourn  ; 
Hope  promises  the  thing  the  soul  desires. 
And  death  is  shorn  of  all  its  terrors  dread. 
Death  means  a  change — man  ne'er  himself  expires. 
The  good  are  safe  with  God,  and  Death  is  dead. 
No  more  the  trump  of  doom  disturbs  men's  sleep, 
By  awful  bellowing  through  the  troubled  deep  ! 
1887. 


Chrisfs  Love,  87 


FALSE  GINEVRA. 

OGINEVRA,  Ginevra  !  your  smiles  are  bright, 
But  your  heart  is  fickle — to  me  untrue  ; 
You  are  not  the  star  I  hailed  with  delight 

In  the  morn  of  the  past  that 's  vanished  from  view. 


UNSEEN. 

IFE'S  dreary  plants  are  in  our  sight, 

We  catch  but  a  breath  of  the  unseen  flowers- 
O  God  !  in  the  depths  of  the  infinite, 

Yield  man  a  glimpse  of  the  Unknown  Powers  I 


L 


I 


CHRIST'S  LOVE. 

SING  the  love  of  the  Nazarene  ; 
Who  taught  along  the  Galilee — 
A  light  by  every  wanderer  seen 

Through  time  and  through  eternity  ! 

His  love  is  more  than  woman's,  friend  ! 

Though  strong  her  love,  it  bears  the  mould 


I  Poems  of  the  Plains. 

Of  vanity,  as  when  ores  blend, 
When  mix  alloy  and  virgin  gold. 

Christ's  love  is  as  a  morning  joy. 

As  spring  perennial,  fair  and  bright — 

It  is  not  wavering,  transient,  coy, 

'T  is  the  one  fixed  star  o'er  lonesome  night  ! 

Like  to  a  sea  bound  by  no  shore. 

His  love  extends,  deep,  far  and  wide  ; 

From  earliest  dawn  till  evermore 
It  flows  one  mighty,  endless  tide. 


LINES  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  AN  INFANT. 

DEAR  little  babe,  few  were  his  days, 
In  this  sad  world,  we  call  the  earth, 
Lo  !  far  beyond,  with  poet's  gaze, 
I  see  !  he  found  a  second  birth  ! 

Wrapped  in  his  infant,  spirit-clothes, 
With  friends  ;  no  longer  him  bewail  ; 

Beyond  the  reach  of  earthly  woes 
No  more  shall  death  his  life  assail. 

How  sweet  to  pass  from  earth  so  pure. 
Before  vile  contact  soils  the  soul ; 

As  sinless  as  our  Lord,  secure. 

Your  babe  has  reached  a  glorious  goal. 


''It  is  /,  Be  not  Afraidr  89 


"IT  IS  I,  BE  NOT  AFRAID! 

r^  OD'S  beauty,  grand,  supernal, 
^^     Far  in  the  starry  depths  unfurls  ! 
God's  glory  lives  eternal 

Above  the  crash  of  mighty  worlds  ! 
Wafts  o'er  the  grave's  abysmal  shade  : 
"  It  is  I,  be  not  afraid  !  " 


0  Conqueror  of  Death  !  O  Light  ! 
The  stars  that  seem  to  speak  in  ruth, 

Unto  Thy  radiance  are  but  night — 

But  froth  and  foam  on  sea  of  Truth  ! 
Christ  calls  to  all — to  Peter  said  : 
"  It  is  I,  be  not  afraid  !  " 

The  night  passed  on — the  fourth  watch  came- 
Christ  glorious  walked  the  troubled  wave  ; 

They  saw  him  coming  like  a  flame, 
And  cried  for  fear  a  ghost  to  brave  ; 

"  Be  of  good  cheer  !  "  their  dear  Lord  said  ; 

"  It  is  I,  be  not  afraid  !  " 

1  hear  the  courser's  thundering  tread  ! 

The  shouting  of  the  armed  foe  ! 
I  saw  the  vanquished  as  they  fled 

In  their  sad  misery  and  woe — 
But  hark  !  a  voice  their  sorrows  stayed  : 
"  It  is  I,  be  not  afraid  !  " 


90  Poems  of  the  Plains. 

Though  ships  are  tossing  on  the  sea, 

Though  winds  are  running  wild  and  high, 

Though  fishermen  on  Galilee 

Are  fearful  when  the  storm  is  nigh — 

O  deep  His  meaning !  more  than  said  : 

"It  is  I,  be  not  afraid  !  " 


SONNET   TO   RICHARD   HENRY   STOD- 
DARD. 

(On  receiving  from  him  one  of  his  autographic  poems.) 

T  'VE  heard  the  music  of  a  friend's  regard, 

Which    touched   my  heart   and    waked    sweet 
memory,  dear, 
That  slept  'neath  waters  of  the  Past's  veiled  mere. 
To  feel  life's  burdens  were  not  half  so  hard  ; 
Above  the  thorns  enhaled  the  rose  and  nard — 
As  though  some  wizard's  power  did  now  repay, 
And  reared  me  temples  on  the  shores  of  day. 
O  Critic  thou  !  and  thou,  O  tuneful  Bard  ! 
Now  comes  thy  song,  with  beauties  none  deny. 
Thy  fame  is  builded  on  two  mountains  high. 
The  mount  of  song,  the  mount  of  censor  free. 
Pinnacled  in  golden  clouds  that  kiss  the  sky. 
O  Bard,  accept  these  grateful  lines  from  me  ! 
To  thank  thee  for  thy  song  I  speak  in  poesy. 


Mjf  Lost  Gem.  91 


MY  LOST  GEM 

T  MOURN  the  gem  I  might  have  had, 
-■-      I  saw  it  erst  in  crystal  wave  ; 
I  touched  it  not,  my  heart  was  glad, 

'T  was  mine  whene'er  I  wished  to  have. 

For  long,  long  years,  't  was  only  mine, 
For  me  God  kindly  placed  it  there  ; 

I  took  it  not — it  was  divine, 

For  mortal  hand  it  was  too  fair  ! 

One  who  had  looked  on  it  with  me. 

And  knew  't  was  mine,  oft  said  :  "  So  fair, 

I  e'er  would  leave  it  in  the  sea, 

'T  is  far  too  bright  for  man  to  wear  !  " 

I  said,  e'en  while  my  heart  did  doubt  : 
"  Yes  !  yes  !  I  will  !  I  'U  leave  it  there  \  " 
A  broken  spell— he  snatched  it  out  ! 
And  I  am  wild  in  my  despair. 


92  Poems  of  the  Plains. 


IN  MEMORY  OF  THOMAS  WILLIAM  PEA- 
COCK.' 

"    A  FTER  life's  fitful  fever,"  now 

In  peace,  rest,  father  !  free  from  care, 
E'en  while  we  mourn  that  o'er  thy  brow 
Death  waves  his  fearful  banner  there  ! 

0  thou  didst  fight  a  noble  fight — 

Most  would  have  lost  hope's  star  ere  thou  ; 
But,  guided  by  a  sense  of  right, 

Not  e'en  to  mountains  wouldst  thou  bow. 

Thy  mind  was  great,  thy  will  was  strong. 
But  thy  soul's  mansion  time  made  weak, 

And,  too,  disease  did  thee  a  wrong, 
And  vexed  thy  generous  spirit  meek. 

Thou  didst  aid  men  who  e'er  were  blind 
To  that  true  honest  faith  of  thine  ; 

'Though  thou  gav'st  them  thy  years,  I  find, 
Alas  !  thou  didst  "  cast  pearls  to  swine." 

Though  some  would  teach  thou  distant  are, 
And  though  I  would  each  good  revere, 

1  deem  that  thou  art  not  afar — 

I  feel,  I  know  that  thou  art  near  ! 

^  Father  of  the  author.     He  died  June  2,  1880,  in  his  sixty- 
fifth  year. 


The  Sunset  in   Victory  93 

For  why  should  one  so  good  and  wise 

Desert  us  in  the  hour  of  care  ! 
Why  mount  at  once  beyond  the  skies 

And  leave  us  in  our  sad  despair  ! 


MORE  LIGHT. 

r\  WILDERNESS  of  worlds  !  ye  stars  ! 
^-^     Could  man  but  read  you  once  aright, 
The  mystery  that  ever  mars 

Our  hopes  would  clear — lo  !  God  and  Light  ! 


THE  SUNSET  IN  VICTORY/ 

T    IFE  is  a  mystery  and  a  dream  ; 
■*^-'     Man  like  the  stars  we  fathom  never  ; 
We  glide  adown  Time's  flowing  stream 
From  cradle  to  the  grave,  forever. 

1  This  poem  is  written  as  a  slight  tribute  of  appreciation  of 
the  honor  conferred  on  my  friend,  Hon.  S.  S.  Cox,  of  New 
York,  in  the  way  of  the  presentation  of  a  floral  device  (the 
Maltese  Cross)  with  the  inscription,  "Sun  Set  in  Victory," 
by  a  host  of  friends,  on  the  occasion  of  his  late  re-election  to 
Congress,  1884. 


94  Poems  of  the  Plains. 

Some  live  and  fail  to  rise  above 
The  common  herd  ;  a  few  we  see, 

That,  like  the  star  of  eve  and  love. 
Soar  far  beyond  the  wave  and  lea. 

Thus  by  his  intellectual  power, 

Brave  Cox  all  odds  hath  overcome — 

The  sweet  bud  blossoms — lo  !  the  flower 
On  Fame's  high  mountain  is  at  home  ! 

The  highest  honor  unto  man. 

The  Maltese  Cross,  looms  gloriously  ! 

High  up  the  heavens,  Cox  leads  the  van. 
His  "  Sun  hath  set  in  Victory  !  ' 


CRUEL,  CRUEL    DEATH  !  ' 

/^H,  bear  me  from  the  battle-field  ! 
^^     I  'm  wounded  with  earth's  sorrow — strife  ! 
I  '11  try  to  rest.     Pray,  friend,  me  shield  ! 
Oh,  sad  and  dismal  is  this  life  ! 

^  Lines  wrang  from  my  heart  by  grief  on  hearing  of  the  sad 
death  of  my  beloved  brother,  William  Carson  Peacock,  M.D., 
who  died  suddenly  on  his  thirty-ninth  birthday,  Monday, 
September  14,  1885,  at  Prairieville,  Kaufman  County, 
Texas. 


Cruel,  Cruel  Death  !  95 

O  God  !  where  wast  Thou  on  that  night 

My  lonely  brother  Carson  died  ? 
Couldst  Thou  not  back  death-cruel  fight 

Until  I  reached  his  suffering  side  ? 

Oh  that  I  might  have  held  his  head  ! 

Wet,  feverish  face,  though  life  must  wane  ; 
It  drives  me  mad  to  think  him  dead, 

And  I  not  near  to  ease  his  pain  ! 

He  died  !  no  kindred  love  was  nigh  ! 

Alas  !  why  was  it  thus  to  be. 
When,  had  we  known  he  was  to  die, 

For  him  we  'd  cross'd  the  wildest  sea  ! 

Oft,  oft  he  called  us  in  his  pain  ! 
His  cries  on  selfish  winds  did  die  ! 

Alas  !  alas  !  he  called  in  vain- 
Blind  !  blind  !  short-sighted  wretch  am  I ! 

O  God  !  what  sacrifice  !  what  boon 
Dost  Thou  demand  to  call  him  back  ! 

He  died  too  young  !  he  died  too  soon  ! 
O  hideous  monster  Death,  alack  ! 

Forgive  me,  God  !  I  know  Thou  'rt  good, 
That  Thou  wilt  help  us  carefully  o'er 

The  darkest  and  the  angriest  flood 

Which  flows  fore'er  from  shore  to  shore. 


96  Poems  of  the  Plains. 

A  friend  unto  the  friendless  poor, 

He  healed  their  sick  and  asked  no  pa/. 

Oh  !  God  remembers,  and  His  door 
To  such  is  open  night  and  day. 

His  love  was  as  a  gentle  dream 

Which  makes  us  happy  till  we  wake  ; 

In  darkness  died  that  tranquil  beam  ! 
My  aching,  wounded  heart  must  break. 

The  years  he  lived  were  beauteous  years, 
Made  beauteous  by  his  life  so  fair  ; 

For  him  I  '11  e'er  weep  sorrow's  tears — 
He  died  !  my  bright  sky 's  dark  with  care. 

But  hush  !  steals  softly  on  my  ear 

A  well-known  voice  from  out  the  air  : 

Weep  not  !  I  live  !  and  I  am  near  ! 

Cheer  up  !  take  hope  !  why,  why  despair  ? 

He  is  not  dead  !  but  gone  before, 
To  live  that  life  that  never  ends — 

We  soon  shall  meet  !  a  few  days  more. 
We  '11  greet  him  and  his  heavenly  friends. 


SONNET  TO  DR.  OLIVER  W.  HOLMES. 

X/'OUR  letter  came  across  the  world  to  me, 
O  Poet,  you  of  rich  and  mystic  song  ! — 
And   crows  that  perched  and  cawed  till  all  was 
wrong, 


spring.  97 

Flew  to  the  woods  that  frowned  beyond  the  lea  ; 
The  low'ring  storm  is  banished  from  life's  sea. 
'T  is  sweet,  the  light,  when  all  is  dark  as  death  ; 
'T  is   sweet,  when   sick,  to  breathe   one  unbound 

breath  ; 
'T  is  sweet  to  know  of  immortality  : 
Your  words  of  praise  are  welcome  quite  as  these, 
And  came  to  me,  how  sweet !  as  in  the  night 
Voices  of  unknown,  wondrous  melodies. 
Shed  on  the  world  a  pure  and  hallowed  light  ! 
Time  kinder  deals  with  you  than  most  of  men. 
So  bright  your  mind  at  threescore  years  and  ten. 


SPRING. 

'  'T^  IS  spring  !  the  birds  are  singing  everywhere  ; 

The  trees  the  lovely  blush  of  promise  bear, 
And  sweetly  o'er  the  land,  from  sea  to  sea. 
The  infant  bud  dreams  of  the  flower  to  be  ; 
And  vale  and  mount,  alike  in  vernal  green. 
Bloom  forth  in  beauty,  gorgeous  and  serene  ; 
The  silvery  stream  goes  dancing  on  its  way  ; 
The  fisherman  hides  from- the  sun's  warm  ray. 
Beneath  the  foliage  of  the  sycamore. 
And  waits  to  see  what  luck  's  for  him  in  store  ; 
The  gentle  kine  graze  on  the  meadow  grass. 
The  flocks  search  high  up  in  the  mountain  pass  ; 
The  plover  pipes  upon  the  prairie  way, 
From  early  morn  until  the  close  of  day, 


gS  Poems  of  the  Plains,  \ 

When  lovely  Luna  hangs  her  horn  on  high 

Far  in  the  eastern  watch-tower  of  the  sky, 

Above  the  fleckless  fleecy  clouds  of  grace, 

Hovering  o'er,  in  the  vastiness  of  space  ; 

Far  down,  the  stars  from  their  high,  saintly  rest. 

View  themselves  tremulous  imaged  in  the  breast 

Of  a  lovely  lake  in  th'  solemn,  dreamy  wold — 

A  lake  of  beauty,  wondrous  to  behold  ! 

Yet,  whilst  we  gaze,  its  grandeur  doth  improve  ; 

The  waves  awake  !  the  scene  grows  sweet  as  love — 

As  she,  who  far  too  proud  to  e'er  be  vain. 

Though  near  and  far  the  one  belle  she  doth  reign. 

Adds  to  her  loveUness  a  charm,  and  rare. 

When  blushing  she  beholds  herself  mirrored  fair ! 

All  these  breathe  of  spring — of  gentle  spring  begun. 

When  sweet  and  dear,  life,  love,  youth,  hope  are  one  : 

Not  only  of  this  world,  and  things  of  this. 

But  of  the  sweet  forevermore,  where  life  eternal  is. 


AUTUMN. 

^ VT  HILE  gently  fall  the  leaves, 

^  ^       The  pensive  boughs  overhead 
Are  mournfully  singing  low, 
A  requiem  of  the  dead. 

The  flowers,  too,  have  faded, 
And  Time  has  conquered  all — 

Has  changed  the  summer  zephyrs 
To  rushing  winds  of  fall. 


Autumn. 

The  harvest  season  's  over, 
And  numbered  with  the  past ; 

All  nature  's  sad  and  dreary, 
As  roars  the  autumn  blast. 

The  barren  hills  and  valleys 
Are  records  of  the  changes. 

With  spring-birds'  absent  warblings 
Along  the  mountain  ranges. 

But  where  are  they,  the  dear  ones. 
Who,  far  past  summer's  life, 

Should,  in  the  year's  autumnal, 
With  hoary  age  be  rife  ? 

They  well-nigh  all  have  perished. 
As  did  the  fragrant  rose, 

But  unlike  will  again  appear 
Where  no  autumn  doth  oppose. 

Each  spring  to  autumn  hastens. 
Each  youth  transforms  to  age, 

Each  genius  leaves  a  record 
On  Time's  historic  page. 


99 


lOO  Poems  of  the  Plains, 


DEPARTED. 

A    FRIEND. 

"T^EAR  friend,  companion  lov'd,  forsooth, 
"^^^     Can  it  be  so  that  thou  art  gone  ? 
Alas  !  it  is  the  mournful  truth, 

Thou  died'st  in  manhood's  early  dawn. 
In  spring-time,  when  the  wild  flowers  wave 

Their  perfumes  o'er  thy  hallowed  bed. 
They  '11  mutely  speak  from  off  thy  grave 

To  passers  by  :  "A  soul  hath  fled." 


I 


FUTURITY. 

N  future  far,  I  see  the  goal ; 

There  !  there  !  I  see  the  darkness  lit, 
Where  now  each  earth-departed  soul, 

Goes  soaring  toward  the  Infinite  ; 
Anear  the  dear,  momentous  hour. 

When  it  shall  rest  beyond  the  skies  : 
I  see  each  spirit-bud  a  flower 

Bloom  sweetly  there  in  Paradise  ! 


The  Hall  of  Valhalla.  loi 


THE  HALL  OF  VALHALLA.' 

T_T  ARK  !  on  the  ear  there  is  toss'd 

Sweet  martial  melody  wild  ; 
It  comes  like  the  sob  of  a  lost, 

Yet  loved  and  beautiful  child. 
From  Valhalla's  Hall  it  doth  come, 

Where  Odin  the  great  god  is. 
Good  tidings  his  ravens  brought  home, 

And  to-night  is  a  revel  o'er  this. 
Phantoms  feast  on  .the  viands  of  the  god, 

And  they  fight  the  battles  of  yore — 
Fierce  shades  of  heroes  under  the  sod, 

Oft  fight  their  wild  battles  o'er  ; 
Alternately,  they  feast  and  fight, 

'Neath  the  smiles  of  their  mighty  god. 
Who  watches,  and  when  all  is  rio:ht. 

Doth  render  an  approving  nod. 
Th'  Valkyrior  virgins  recruit  o'er  the  corse, 

From  the  battle-field  of  the  slain — 
More  phantoms  to  aid  Odin's  force — 

An  army  of  ghosts  to  retain  ; 
Till  arrives  that  hour  so  drear, 

When  the  great  dread  battle  's  to  fight. 
Which  gods  and  Titans  do  fear — 

When  one  race  will  vanish  in  night. 


'  The  abode  of  the  god  Odin.— [Scandinavian  mythology.] 


I02  Poems  of  the  Plains. 


ASLEEP. 

Q  HE  sleeps  !  the  beauty  of  the  vale  ! 

*^     Her  brow  is  calm,  her  cheeks  are  pale, 

Lips  slightly  ope,  as  though  would  stray 

Her  thoughts  upon  the  wind  away. 

She  one  of  perfect  health  doth  seem. 

In  whom  love's  noblest  feelings  teem. 

She  sleeps  in  an  Arcadian  bower, 

Where  perfume  from  the  forest  flower, 

Breathing  around  her  wild-wood  bed. 

And  through  locks  of  her  lovely  head, 

Enhances  restless,  wanton  breeze. 

Which  stirs  the  leaves  upon  the  trees. 

And  now  and  then,  in  ruder  blow. 

Exposes  breasts  of  virgin  snow  ; 

A  hand  as  perfect  and  as  fair 

As  hopes  that  swim  in  happy  air  ; 

A  foot  as  light  and  comely  made 

As  e'er  possess'd  by  nymph  or  naiad  ; 

A  limb  as  perfect  as  the  roe's. 

That  swiftly  through  the  forest  goes. 

With  beauty  which  to  homage  pay. 

That  th'  many  crowned  her  "  Queen  of  May," 

With  Diana's  virtue,  Sappho's  soul. 

Her  presence  made  an  Eden  goal. 

And  though  the  whispers  of  the  wind. 

With  voices  of  the  trees  combined, 

Oft  rise  above,  oft  lowly  creep. 


Improvised.  103 

Still  doth  the  "  Queen  of  Beauty  "  sleep. 

But  lo  !  she  stirs  !  gaze  on  her  brow  ! 

Hush  !  hush  !  draw  near  !  Great  God,  e'en  now, 

E'en  while  we  spoke  of  her  fair  charms, 

Death  subtlely  our  darling  harms. 

Each  breath  in  weaker  volume  flows, 

Each  rise  of  bosom  slower  grows. 

Wake  !  wake  her,  and  we  '11  death  oppose  ! 

Why  should  she  die  ?  this  sweet  spring  rose  ! 

Already  she  hath  woke  above, 

And  with  pure  angels'  sacred  love 

Is  shielded  from  all  pain  and  harm  on  high, 

And  finds  that  rest  for  which  the  weary  sigh. 


IMPROVISED.' 

HO,  who  art  thou,  fair  nameless  friend, 
That  wishes  me  so  great  a  boon  ? 
Why  not  with  thy  good  wish,  too,  send 
To  me  thy  hidden  name  as  soon  ? 


w 


A  merry  Christmas,  happy  year, 
You  write  you  wish  me,  from  afar  ; 

How  sensitive  to  wish,  yet  fear 
To  tell  me  who  you  really  are. 

1  On  receiving  a  newspaper,  dated  December  19,  1874,  from 
a  distance,  with  the  following  sentence  written  on  the  margin, 
in  a  lady's  hand,  without  a  signature  :  "I  wish  you  a  merry 
Christmas  and  a  happy  New  Year." 


I04  Poems  of  the  Plains. 

Although  thy  name  incog,  remains, 
And  even  though  I  knew  thee  not, 

Yet  comes  thy  wish  as  on  the  plains 

Heaven's  aid  to  a  wretch  by  man  forgot. 

Methinks  I  know  thee,  though  thy  name 
Thou  hast  withheld  through  modest  fears  ; 

The  past  comes  back,  more  sweet  than  fame. 
Across  the  weary  waste  of  years. 

Oh  !  dear  to  me  the  nevermore ! 

I  would  that  dream  might  ever  last — 
The  golden  days,  the  days  of  yore, 

The  past  that  is  forever  past ! 

Since  thou  hast  given  no  address, 

'T  is  meet  to  thank  thee,  thus,  I  deem  : 

May  Heaven  thy  eon  ever. bless — 
Thy  life  one  sweet,  unbroken  dream. 


IN  MEMORY  OF  EUGENE  COLE. 

VTES  !  he,  Eugene,  has  to  the  blast 

■^       Of  fate  bow'd  early  in  life's  spring, 
As  each  and  all,  in  turn,  at  last. 

Must  fade  beneath  Death's  sombre  wing. 
Promethean  fires,  warm,  beauteously. 

The  chambers  of  his  soul  illumed  • 
A  votary  of  Parnassus,  free 

The  flowers  of  his  muse  have  bloomed. 


Murder.  105 

Gone  !  as  a  dream  we  fondly  cherish 

Yet  lose  alas  !  forevermore  ! 
And  oh  !  must  our  friendship  perish 

With  that  loved  one  whom  we  adore  ? 
No  !  no  !  for  while  his  vanish'd  form 

Shall  brightly  live  on  memory's  page, 
Haunting  fore'er  life's  calm  and  storm — 

Like  some  sweet  bird  freed  from  its  cage, 
As  fair  as  love  beyond  the  blue. 

Where  morning  never  veils  her  form, 
The  soul  will  soar  high  heaven  through. 

Above  time's  ruins,  death,  and  storm. 
1875. 


MURDER/ 

"\  7[ /"HEN  rampant  Murder  earth  stalks  o'er. 

Breathing  death-blighting  far  and  nigh, 
Hills,  wolds,  all  things,  the  wound  feel  sore 

And  in  distress  to  th'  Eternal  cry. 
Wild  Anger  rises  from  his  rest, 

Shakes  off  the  drowsy  web  of  sleep  ; 
Now  fiercest  passions  him  invest, 

And  o'er  his  swollen  body  creep. 
And  Vengeance  dons  his  robes  blood-red. 

Calls  to  clouds  which  sympathetic  be, 
That,  moving  on,  mourn  for  the  dead — 

Souls  hurl'd  from  time  to  eternity. 

'  Composed  at  Independence,  Kansas,  when  first  hearing  of 
the  horrible  murders  bv  the  fiendish  Bender  family. 


lo6  Poems  of  the  Plains. 

Are  th'  midnight,  crime-stained  deeds  of  woe, 

Of  wandering  fiends  which  naught  appease, 
Are  Hell's  dark  nameless  deeds  more  low 

Than  th*  Drum  Creek  Bender  tragedies  ? 
The  moon  grieves  o'er  the  silent  dead, 

In  pity  gazes  th'  sad-eyed  star ; 
Where  deep  death-cries  the  wild  air  fed. 

With  silence  they  yet  seem  to  war. 
The  spirit  o'er  the  grave  doth  weep, 

For  its  dead  body  hidden  there. 
Shrouds  rustle  !  'gainst  death's  untim'd  sleep 

Rebelling,  moves  the  corse  in  its  despair  ! 
Whoe'er  struck  much  the  harmless  flint 

And  brought  not  forth  the  venom'd  fire  ? 
Just  Nemesis  !  arise,  nor  stint 

The  vengeance  of  thy  fatal  ire  ! 


THE  CHASE. 

1\ /r  ORN  in  her  orient  chamber  wakes, 

And  the  blast  of  the  hunter's  horn 
Startles  the  stillness,  as  it  breaks 
The  sleep  of  all  to  whom  't  is  borne. 

Brave  knights  uprise,  and  ladies  fair. 
And  call  for  their  steeds — a  noble  race  : 

Each  anxious  hound  runs  here  and  there, 
Eagerly  panting  for  the  chase. 


The  Chase.  107 

A  stag  is  loosed  from  his  pent  rest, 
Where  he  has  fattened  for  the  chase  ; 

Of  all  the  deer  he  is  the  best — 
The  largest,  swiftest  of  his  race. 


The  horses  plunge,  nor  urging  need — 
Of  the  excitement  they  partake  ; 

Away  they  bound,  o'er  fence  and  mead. 
And  through  the  leafy  umbrage  break. 

Through  gloomy  cypress  wolds  they  flee — 
Past  many  a  wild  Idalian  bower — 

They  hear  the  booming  of  the  sea. 

They  breathe  the  perfume  of  the  flower. 

The  deer  bounds  on  his  headlong  way, 
Swift  rushing  from  the  foes  he  fears — 

The  ope-mouthed  bloodhound's  baleful  bay 
Comes  like  a  death-knell  to  his  ears. 

With  eager  haste  the  hunters  urge 

Their  steeds,  and  test  their  fleetest  powers  ; 
Now  from  the  woods  they  do  emerge — 

Far  o'er  the  plain  the  swift  deer  scours  ! 

But  lo  !  the  lord  of  many  a  waste 
Now  pauses,  gazing  wildly  back  ! 

Far  better  for  him  on  to  haste — 
He  falls  !  and  to  the  rifle's  crack. 


io8  Poems  of  the  Plains. 

Night's  shadows  fall  on  all  below — 

The  queenly  moon  comes  forth,  no  less 

The  radiant  stars,  that  ever  glow 
In  their  eternal  silences. 

A-weary  with  the  long-liv'd  chase, 
The  knights  and  winsome  ladies  fair. 

Their  jaded  steeds  turn,  and  retrace 
To  castle  and  refreshments  there. 


THE  PRAYER  OF  THE  UNIVERSE. 

'T^HOU,  ocean  !  in  thy  restlessness, 
Speak'st  of  the  Throne  on  high, 
And  in  thy  heavings  thou  dost  bless 
The  God  whom  men  deny. 

O  thou,  bright  Sun  !  whose  golden  rays 

Dispel  the  darkest  night. 
Thy  prayers  are  many  as  the  days 

Thou  usherest  into  light. 

Sweet  Cynthia  !  thou  pale  orb  of  night, 
Whom  Hesper  guards,  serene — 

Thou  !  who  in  thy  bless'd  realm  of  Light 
Rulest  starry  subjects,  queen. 


The  Prayer  of  the   Universe.  109 

In  beauty,  thou  obeisance  payest, 

To  Him  who  thee  afar, 
Plac'd  there  where  thou  enraptured  stayest, 

Thy  diadem  a  star. 

And  you,  ye  glittering  starry  spheres  ! — 

A  million  Argus  eyes — 
Your  very  presence  life  endears  ; 

The  poetry  of  the  skies. 

In  modesty's  sweet  loveliness, 

The  sacramental  cup 
Ye  fill  and  drink  ;  by  hope  no  less, 

Ye  bid  the  soul  look  up. 

Sweet  Bow  !  thy  prayers  are  great,  thou  art, 

Thou  joyest  in  the  happy  sky, 
Thou  givest  hope  to  every  heart 

Through  ages  passing  by. 

The  mountains  by  their  lofty  flights 

The  rivers  by  their  flow. 
The  forests  by  the  pure  delights. 

They  offer  and  bestow. 

Thus  Nature  ever  freely  gives. 

Devout,  her  prayers  o'er  earth  ; 
True  to  herself  she  nobly  lives 

As  destined  at  her  birth. 


no  Poems  of  the  Plains. 


EGERIA. 

'T^  HOUGH  years  have  come  and  years  have  gone 
'■'       Since  I  beneath  thy  magic  smile 
Basked — like  the  glad  earth  in  the  dawn, 
When  hope  and  joy  the  hours  beguile — 

As  some  fair,  pure,  and  tranquil  star 

Seems  to  embody  all  we  crave, 
And  though  it  sweetly  shines  afar, 

Still  keeps  our  hopes  beyond  the  grave, 

Sweet  Undine  of  the  deep  blue  wave — 

Lov'd  houri  of  Utopian  Heaven — 
Thus  dearest  thoughts  to  thee  I  gave, 

Thus  in  memory  they  are  given. 

The  stars  forevermore  enshrin'd 

In  their  high  homes  far  o'er  the  sea — 

In  their  dear  beauty,  me  remind, 
Egeria  !  darling  one,  of  thee  ! 

Ah,  yes  !  methinks  I  see  thee  now. 

In  all  thy  wealth  of  beauty,  sweet, 
With  bright  tiaras  on  thy  brow, 

And  flowing  tresses  to  thy  feet. 

Dark  eyes  of  wondrous  loveliness — 

A  Peri's  figure  ere  its  fall — 
Supernal  beauty— nothing  less — 

Thine,  darling,  dearest  one  of  all. 


Drifting.  i  u 


PURITY. 


A  N  angel  she  looked  in  her  robe  of  white  ; 

A  spirit  stepped  out  from  its  earthly  shroud, 
A  being  of  Light  in  a  world  of  Night, 

The  brightest  of  stars   mid  the  darkening  cloud. 

She  knelt,  poured  forth  her  soul  in  prayer, 

And  meekly  asked  to  be  forgiven  ; 
Each  word  was  borne  from  earth  with  care, 

And  entered  in  the  book  of  Heaven — 

By  angels  borne,  whose  missions  are 

To  descend  and  ascend  from  birth, 
From  world  to  world,  past  cloud  and  star — 

God's  messengers,  'twixt  Heaven  and  earth. 


DRIFTING. 

T  N  our  boat  we  are  on  the  sea 

Lying  now  so  calm  and  still, 
The  world  seems  full  of  melody, 
And  fragrance  seems  the  air  to  fill. 

Fair  Rosamond  is  by  my  side — 
In  all  her  loveliness  so  fair, 

She  oft  wounds  many  a  beauty's  pride- 
Awakening  pangs  of  jealous  care. 


112  Poems  of  the  Plains. 

The  night  is  one  of  loveliness — 
A  night  when  in  our  hearts  we  feel 

That  angels,  in  the  homes  they  bless, 
Behold  all  human  woe  and  weal. 

While  o'er  the  waters  wide  we  roam, 
Across  the  wave  the  sea-bird  calls  ; 

We  *re  drifting  on,  a  league  from  home — 
O'er  vasty  deep  the  moonlight  falls. 

The  breeze  which  whispers  'round  our  sail 
Seems  to  breathe  of  another  world. 

Near  by,  just  there  beyond  the  pale 

Blue,  dreamy  clouds,  that  float  unfurl'd. 

A  radiant  world  of  peace  and  love, 

That  freely  yields  all  the  warm  heart  craves. 

On,  like  a  lovely  dream,  we  move. 
Far  o'er  the  bosoms  of  the  waves — 

That  are  floating,  gently  ever, 

Upon  their  far  Eternity — 
And  like  the  longing  Peri,  never 

Find  the  goal  they  wish  to  see. 

I  gaze  in  Rosamond's  sweet  face. 

Thinking  :  death  ends  all  can  science  show- 
Ah  !  how  can  sightless  science  trace 

The  unseen  spirit  free  to  go  ? 


Escaped,  1 1 3 


ESCAPED. 

nPHE  moonbeams  do  the  waters  lave, 

And  shimmering  dance  on  many  a  bower, 
On  land  and  far  across  the  wave, 

The  air  is  fragrant  from  the  flower. 
The  distant  Pleiades  seem  to  be, 

There,  gazing  from  their  far-off  coasts, 
Born  angels  of  Eternity, 

Or  mortals'  wise,  departed  ghosts. 
Afar  upon  the  dark-blue  wave 

A  beauteous  bark  bears  o'er  the  sea, 
A  sea  that  seems  beyond  the  grave — 

The  ocean  of  Eternity. 
On  deck,  behold  !  'neath  awning  shade, 

A  noble  maid  and  cavalier  ; 
The  damsel  looks  as  though  afraid 

Of  dangers  on  the  deep,  anear. 
Still  onward  like  a  bird,  the  boat 

Now  swiftly  glides  the  sea  afar — 
To  what  safe  haven  doth  she  float  ? 

To  yon  serene  and  heavenly  star  ? 
The  lovely  maiden  Isabella, 

The  daughter  fair  of  Don  Valdorn, 
Who  vow'd  that  she  must  wed  Garella, 

His  friend,  a  rich  hidalgo  born. 
But  one  she  loved  most  passionately, 

Who  equally  loved  her  as  well — 
To  reach  a  home  beyond  the  sea, 


1 14  Poems  of  the  Plains, 

Was  heaven  to  them  beyond  a  hell. 
So,  to  pursue  the  heart's  dictate, 

The  heart  wherein  love  was  enshrined. 
They  trusted  all  to  hope  and  fate, 

And  left  their  foes  and  Spain  behind. 
But  lo  !  again  the  god  of  light 

Illumes  the  world  beneath  his  smile, 
And  heaven  erst  sweet  with  stars  bedight, 

Now  dons  the  veil  of  blue  the  while. 
"  O  !  haste  thee,  dearest  Fabian  !  speak  ! 

Are  we  safe  from  my  father's  wrath  ?  " 
The  maid  look'd  to  the  strong  man,  weak — 

"  O  haste  thee  on  our  ocean  path  !  " 
"  Forget  thy  fears,  smile  as  of  yore, 

Art  thou  not  mine,  and  I  with  thee  ? 
Am  I  not  thine  ?  and  what  is  more — 

With  this  armed  ship  we  shall  be  free." 
She  smil'd,  yet  paler  grew  her  cheeks, 

"  But  lo  !  yon  coming  ship  !  "  she  cries  ; 
"  E'en  now  my  sire,  my  foe,  me  seeks  !  " 

She  looks  the  unhappiest  'neath  the  skies  ; 
She  swooned  from  fright  ;  and  well  she  feared, 

For  he  who  claimed  to  be  her  sire. 
When  balk'd,  was  like  a  tiger  speared — 

As  mad  as  murder  in  desire. 
Don  Fabian  caught  the  one  he  loved 

And  placed  her  in  the  cabin,  then 
Quick  looked,  where  o'er  the  sea  there  moved 

A  vessel  teeming  with  armed  men. 
"  Now,  by  the  heavenly  saints,  I  swear, 

I  '11  make  yon  foeman  rue  the  hour 


Escaped.  1 1 5 

When  first  they  J;hought  my  rights  to  dare 

And  make  me  to  their  wishes  cower. 
What  ho  !  Bernardo  !  load  the  gun  ! 

The  gun  on  the  forecastle  there, 
And  when  thou  this  thing  well  hast  done, 

To  those  on  yon  craft  say,  '  Beware  !  '  " 
Upon  the  deck  the  sailor  sprang, 

And  quick  obeyed  the  order  given, 
And  soon  the  cannon  loudly  rang, 

Like  Triton's  mighty  trumpet,  even. 
Boom  !  boom  !  the  enemy  replies, 

And  now  the  battle  opens  well  ; 
Each  ship  the  other  one  defies. 

And  Anger  wears  the  f^ont  of  Hell. 
Each  vessel  sheers  close  in  the  fight, 

And  small-arms  now  begin  to  play, 
And  on  apace  draws  darkling  Night  ; 

The  Day,  aggriev'd,  hath  hid  away. 
The  vessels  feel  the  wounds  of  fight, 

And  still  approach  ;  each  larboard  bow 
Beats  boldly  'gainst  each  other  quite  ; 

Each  boarder  draws  his  cutlass.     Now 
Fate  wills,  and  upon  dark  Death  calls, 

Who  doffs  the  cumb'rous  robe  of  sleep  ; 
He  wakes  to  hear  Time's  swift  foot-falls — 

Knows  his  dread  harvest  is  to  reap. 
Heavens  !  what  means  this  strange  commotion  ! 

The  very  air  is  trembling  now  ! 
And  near  and  far  the  living  ocean 

The  blow  feels  on  his  massive  brow  ! 
One  ship  up  like  a  rocket  rose. 

Amid  a  wild  and  deafening  roar  ! 


Ii6  Poems  of  the  Plains. 

The  other  backward  helpless  goes, 

Feeling  the  fearful  shock  full  sore. 
Now  wakes  in  her  high  orient  tower, 

The  lovely,  sweet,  and  gentle  Dawn, 
Who,  gazing  from  her  beauteous  bower, 

A  horrid  direful  scene  looks  on. 
The  bark  that  once  had  held  Valdorn 

And  his  bold  crew  of  sunny  Spain, 
Now  was  a  ruin  ;  and  forlorn, 

Each  one  aboard  had  felt  the  bane. 
A  spark  had  reached  the  magazine 

Of  Valdorn's  ship,  Gitano  ;  dread 
The  ghastly,  wild,  and  fearful  scene 

When  that  bark  hurl'd  up  with  her  dead. 
From  where  she  battling  sheers  her  course, 

Back  !  the  Habana,  Fabian's  vessel. 
Was  heav'd  like  some  light  cork,  perforce. 

And  with  the  wilder  waves  did  wrestle  ! 

*  *  *  -55:  *  * 

Days,  weeks,  and  months  have  come  and  gone 

Since  Death  worked  havoc  on  the  sea — 
And  on  an  island  fair  as  dawn, 

Don  Fabian  and  his  bride  are  free 
To  live  and  love — she  bonny  fair. 

So  fair  that  like  her  there  are  few  ; 
And  he  with  Bayard  would  compare. 

So  brave,  so  chivalrous,  and  true. 
As  spring's  soft  breath  the  sweet  buds  ope. 

And  flowers  bloom  fair  where  all  was  blight, 
These  two  now  view  the  star  of  Hope, 

Dispelling  night  with  its  glad  light. 


Proof  of  Mans  Immortality.  WJ 


PROOF  OF  MAN'S  IMMORTALITY. 

MAN'S  lofty  thoughts  immortal,  never 
Perish,  though  time  may  mountains  strew  ; 
When  his  creations  live  forever. 

Shall  man  not,  their  creator,  too  ? 
The  seed  placed  in  the  ground  soon  dies 

To  live  again — a  tree  or  flower  : 
Then  man,  the  noblest  'neath  the  skies, 

O'er  grave  must  own  the  victor's  power. 
Were  earth  all  that  exists  for  man, 

A  tamer  mind  he  would  be  given, 
And  not  those  mighty  powers  that  scan 

All  save  the  sacred  rights  of  Heaven  ! 
'T  is  th'  lot  of  mortal  to  lament, 

And  naught  will  change  this  wise  decree — 
'T  is  the  striving  of  the  spirit  pent 

Within  the  body  to  be  free. 
Outside  of  Bible,  dogma,  creed, 

We  see  it  in  the  restless  sea  ; 
In  blast,  in  zephyr,  we  can  read  : 

Man's  life  goes  on  eternally. 
Why  should  sweet  music  so  touch  hearts, 

That  e'en  when  vanish'd  to  the  ear 
There  is  a  something  ne'er  departs — 

Its  soul  enrapturing  still  is  near  ? 
Why  do  we  in  our  hearts  e'er  find 

A  friend  whom  we  do  prize  so  dear, 
Grows  more  within  our  souls  enshrin'd 


1 1 8  Poems  of  the  Plains. 

As  life's  last  parting  hour  draws  near  ? 
Does  man  fore'er  through  life  aspire 

To  soar  above  his  lot  for  naught  ? — 
Like  some  proud  bird,  its  course  e'er  higher, 

Why  do  we  rise  on  wings  of  thought  ? 
These  !  these  are  proofs  within  themselves 

Of  that  bright  life  we  ever  crave  ; 
Our  every  nature,  too,  rebels 

Against  annihilation's  grave. 
We  long  for  Heaven-born  sympathy, 

This  in  life,  in  death,  we  cherish  ; 
That  we  would  live  beyond  time's  sea, 

Proves  that  we  shall  never  perish  I 
Those  spectral  ones  that  come  and  flee 

Like  fair  eidolons  haunting  dreams — 
Like  glimpses  fair  earth's  favor'd  see 

Of  Heaven's  few,  short  minute  gleams — 
Teach  us,  e'en  while  their  loss  we  mourn — 

Fair  ones  to  every  impulse  dear, — 
To  dry  our  tears,  for  they  are  borne 

To  Light  where  Hope  has  naught  to  fear. 
With  angels  they  now  sweetly  soar, 

Where  all 's  revealed  in  one  grand  truth, 
Where  fair  flowers  bloom  forevermore, 

Enthron'd  in  life's  perpetual  youth. 
Along  the  whole  dark  way  of  life, 

With  being  th'  angel  Hope  is  fraught, 
And  there  before,  all  through  earth's  strife, 

It  sweetly  floats  the  ocean  Thought ! 
And  in  life's  glorious  twilight  even 

We  see  the  golden  clouds  unroll, 


The  Decree  of  Fate.  1 19 

Where  this  fair  angel  looks  from  Heaven, 

And  beckons  to  the  lovely  goal. 
And  we  feel  Heaven's  gates  are  wide  swinging, 

Ever  open  to  children  of  sin — 
By  angels  open'd,  who  are  singing 

To  welcome  the  wanderer  in. 
The  skeptic  may  cry  :  "  No  proof  I  find 

Beyond  the  grave  there  's  woe  or  weal  !  " 
So  there  are  those  who  're  color-blind  : 

Still  the  beautiful  shades  are  just  as  real. 
For  all  desires,  save  one,  there  be 

A  panacea  on  earth  for  it  : 
Must  our  craving  for  immortality 

Not  have  a  goal  as  real,  as  fit  ? 


THE  DECREE  OF  FATE. 

T  N  an  imperial  valley  glade, 

Where  every  thing  was  fair 
With  beauty-gifts  that  round  were  laid 

On  earth  and  hung  in  air, 
A  castle  held  a  maiden  fair, 

Who  dwelt  'midst  all  that  wealth  could  buy, 
A  youth  in  a  lonely  cottage,  there 

In  the  lovely  vale  lived  nigh. 
Affection  sprang  in  their  hearts  warm — 

O'er  the  gulf  that  beneath  them  lay, 
A  beauteous  bridge  kind  Love  did  form, 

Which  Fate's  dark  waves  destroy'd  for  aye. 


I20  Poems  of  the  Plains. 

As  th'  day-god  in  his  golden  car, 

Rode  over  the  western  wave, 
And  twilight  flung  each  sparkling  star 

Into  the  sky  which  beauty  gave, 
That  maid  lay  sickened  unto  death  ; 

Wan  was  her  lovely  classic  brow, 
And  slower  came  each  painful  breath 

Which  mocked  life's  passing  moments  noWo 
Now  bending  o'er  that  one  so  fair, 

From  which  the  rose  of  health  hath  fled, 
Is  he  who  loves — despair — despair. 

The  one  he  fondly  loves  is  dead  ! 
Oh  !  thus  it  is  on  earth  :    we  find 

A  glow  of  holy  transient  light. 
Absorbing  heart,  and  soul,  and  mind. 

To  see  it  vanish  in  death's  night. 
Oft  wandering  in  solitude, 

He  felt  and  he  sa.w  in  the  breeze. 
Her  spirit,  so  pure,  haunting  the  wood 

Of  the  vale  with  its  whispering  trees. 


TO  A  FAIR  ONE. 

n^HOU  art  so  fair,  so  radiant  fair. 

That  beauty,  love,  and  melody, 
Are  far  more  precious  everywhere — 
Because  they  are  adorned  by  thee  ! 


Angel  Voices.  121 

Adorn'd  by  thee,  as  roses  are 

By  th'  gentle  perfume,  sweet  as  love, 

As  heaven's  eternal  glowing  star, 
By  th'  mystery  clothing  it,  above. 

Thy  face  is  like  a  fair  spring  morn, 

Thy  eyes  are  like  the  depths  of  heaven — 

So  deep  they  reach  beyond  this  bourne, 
So  distant  deep  their  meaning,  even. 

Thy  hands  are  like  fair  glows  of  light 

Snowy  receptacles  for  flowers — 
As  beautiful  as  spotless  white 

As  clustering  pearls  in  sea-nymphs'  bowers. 

Thy  voice  thrills  round  like  golden  bells 

Bless'd  fairies  ring  near  eventide, 
When  singing  birds  in  happy  dells, 

Tell  Spring  comes  like  a  blushing  bride. 


ANGEL  VOICES. 

'X^T'ITH  fragrant  odors  on  the  air, 

Which  zephyrs  to  my  windows  bear, 
There  comes  to  me  a  sweet  refrain, 
Seeming  from  off  yon  dewy  plain  ! 
Angel  voices  sweetly  swelling  ; 
Wafting  by  the  arbor,  telling  : 


122  Poems  of  the  Plains. 

"Above  we  sympathize  with  thee, 

O  man  !  in  thy  deep  misery  ! 

And  here  in  Heaven  we  ever  pray 

For  thee,  a  being  far  astray — 

Whom  Hope  now  lights,  whom  now  Despair 

Shows  all  is  dark,  where  once  't  was  fair. 

But  why  shouldst  thou  despond  on  Earth 

When  Heaven  for  thee  hath  other  birth — 

A  tranquil  life,  a  life  oft  sought 

In  vain  by  man's  best  searching  thought — 

Beyond  the  star,  so  sweet  and  bright, 

Glowing  on  distant  shore  of  night, 

Where  there  *s  no  need  of  Lethe's  waves — 

Heed  !  Heaven  yields  all  the  soul  e'er  craves  ! 

The  voices  vanish — sweetly  wane — 

And  meditation  now  doth  reign. 


MAN'S  LIMITED  KNOWLEDGE. 

IV /r  AN'S  vision  is  short — confined  to  a  sphere 

Which  little  reveals  and  leaves  him  to  doubt 
Much  that  's  beyond  the  lower  world  here — 
The  mysteries  speculated  about. 

A  singer,  a  nation  may  win  by  her  lay, 

A  beauty  entrance  by  her  charms  a  whole  race  : 

But  do  these  prevent  other  nations  away, 

From  equalling  the  voice,  and  the  beautiful  face  ? 


Tropical.  123 

Worlds  may  exist  with  fair  beings  as  great 
Or  greater  by  far  than  Earth  ever  bore — 

Some  stars  be  the  abode  of  creatures  elate, 
Other  stars  mighty  shades  long  gone  before. 

Great  worlds  of  beauty,  with  temples  of  joy. 
May  roll  beyond  space's  invisible  sea, 

Where  love  is  love  without  any  alloy — 

The  stars  the  outposts  of  Heaven  may  be — 

Light-houses  to  illume  the  spirit's  dark  way 

To  Heaven  when  from  Earth's  bondage  set  free — 

To  keep  it  from  wandering  far  a.stray, 
And  perishing  ingloriously  ! 

Perchance  the  link  between  Heaven  and  Earth — 

Man's  only  sight  of  Eternity — 
O  mortal  !  wilt  thou  e'er  know  their  worth  ? 

They  are  a  beautiful  mystery  ! 

The  sun  may  borrow  its  light  from  God's  throne 
As  borrows  th'  moon  from  the  sun  sublime  ; 

A  mystical  light  has  ever  shone 
Down  from  the  life  etern  to  time. 


TROPICAL. 

'V  1  rHAT  a  joyous  thing  to  wake, 
^^       In  a  lovely  summer  clime, 
Where  orioles  sing  from  tree  and  brake, 
And  nightingales  join  the  chime. 


124  Poems  of  the  Plains. 

Where  dark-eyed  girls  with  raven  hair, 

More  lovely  than  a  goddess,  even, 
Dwell  in  all  their  radiance  fair, 

Real  houris  in  an  earthly  heaven. 
What  glories  there  the  day  unfolds — 

What  rapturous  charm  of  scenery  ! 
In  sea,  in  streams — mounts,  vales,  and  wolds, 

E'er  green  in  flowers  that  bloom  so  free. 
How  fair  to  see  that  land  when  dead 

Is  day,  and  night  makes  good  the  loss  : 
Behold,  o'er  wave,  on  aerial  bed, 

Asleep  the  floating  albatross  ! 
Behold  that  moon,  that  mingles  light 

With  all  the  stars  that  blaze  and  burn — 
Eve's  blooming  flowers. — By  day  or  night 

The  eye  sweet  beauty  doth  discern. 
Oh,  constant  I  '11  be  to  the  maiden 

I  know  in  that  tropical  land, 
For  my  heart  with  love  is  o'er-laden 

For  Lorena,  my  soul's  deodand  ! 
And  oft  as  Eve's  fairest  star,  yonder, 

Doth  serene  light  in  loveliness  dole. 
Then  steals  on  my  sense  the  sweet  wonder 

Of  her  loving  and  beautiful  soul. 
1875. 


A    Vision.  125 


REST. 


/^H  !  we  shall  rest — forever  rest — 
^^     At  home,  beyond  yon  dreamy  sky 
Fast  growing  purple  in  the  west, 

'Neath  Day's  all-seeing,  glorious  eye. 
Where  all  do  live  as  clear  from  stain. 

As  o'er  the  earth  yon  glowing  star, 
Reflecting  from  the  liquid  main. 

Its  image  taintless,  free  and  far. 
Where  life  is  long,  and  hope  is  real, 

Undimm'd  by  shades  that  mock  us  here  ; 
Where  that  crav'd  vainly  here,  we  feel 

In  radiant  beauty,  thrilling  near — 
There  each  and  all  shall  happy  be, 

By  time's  annihilation  wrought  ; 
Each  life  now  pent  will  be  as  free, 

As  soaring  as  ilnshackl'd  thought. 
Then  look  !  nor  veil  in  tears  the  eye, 

Beyond  's  no  vestige  of  despair — 
Behold  !  afar  on  Being's  sky. 

Fair  Hope's  bright  sceptre  stirs  the  air  ! 


A  VISION. 

'T^HIS  vision  strange  transported  me 

-*•       Far,  far  beyond  the  rolling  sea. 
Where  'mid  sweet  scenes  which  ever  bless, 
Live  Love  and  Beauty  in  happiness. 


126  Poems  of  the  Plains. 

The  golden  hours  in  peace  roam  there, 

By  sparkling  rills  so  pure  and  fair  ; 

They  seem  as  they  gently  lave  th'  brink, 

The  fountains  where  sweet  spirits  drink. 

There  day  e'er  flees  through  golden  light, 

There  e'er  in  beauty  roams  the  Night ; 

There  with  a  peerless  orient  maid, 

In  that  elysian  land  I  staid, 

For  months  and  months  this  boon  was  mine  : 

A  votary  at  the  fairest  shrine. 

How  fair  she  was  to  look  upon  ! 

As  beauteous  as  the  infant  dawn 

Of  summer  with  its  flowers  and  streams — 

A  golden  dream  of  lovely  dreams. 

Her  rich  lips  through  which  song  flowed  free, 

Are  like  the  past,  a  memory — 

Her  lovely  person  so  admired. 

Like  a  fair  flower  bloomed  and  expired. 

Expired  on  earth  in  Heaven  to  be — 

Beyond  those  beauteous  stars  we  see, 

O'er  yonder  dreamy  mountain  wold. 

Where  fleckless  clouds  their  beauty  hold. 

No  flower  of  Heaven  can  breathe  more  rare, 

A  beauty  than  her  presence  there — 

When  called  from  earth,  which  sighed  to  give, 

She  went  to  God — fore'er  to  live. 

'Mid  feelings  which  awaken  care, 

I  wander  back,  in  memory,  there, 

A  fair  loved  angel  looks  from  Heaven, 

Above  the  starry  orb  at  even. 

1875- 


Poetry.  127 


POETRY. 

pOETRY  is  that  higher,  better  life— 
^       A  poem  a  gather'd  ray  of  it  ; 
As  a  flower  to  its  perfume,  rife, 
A  poet  to  his  poems  writ. 

The  Universe  is  a  poem  sublime — 

The  greatest  poem  that  man  can  trace — 

God  is  the  poet :  He  wrote  it  one  time. 
On  the  great  blank  scroll  of  space. 

All  poetry  erst  is  radiant  pure, 

Since  up  in  Heaven  it  hath  its  birth — 

And  all  its  parts  that  stains  endure 

Come  from  their  contact  with  the  earth. 

In  Heaven  are  poems,  so  wondrous  divine, 
That  none  comprehend  them  aright 

Save  God,  and  the  mystical  ones  at  his  shrine. 
Yet  man  in  time  may  read  with  delight. 


128  Poems  of  the  Plains, 


THE  HERO.' 

'HP  HE  train  with  the  speed  of  lightning  flees  on — 
On — on — like  the  flight  of  the  shooting-stars — 
Over  miles  and  miles  that  come  and  are  gone 

'Neath  the  whirling  wheels  of  the  rushing  cars. 
The  train  is  as  swift  as  some  mighty  bird, 

And  seems  to  possess  an  immortal  soul — 
With  depths  of  feeling  could  it  be  heard, 

Which  would  startle  the  world  from  pole  to  pole  ! 
Lo !  what  's  on  the  track  so  small  and  so  frail  ? 

'T  is  a  living  thing,  for  it  moves  around  ! 
The  engineer  whistles  down  brakes — 't  will  fail ! 

No  one  can  respond  in  time  to  the  sound  ! 
"  'T  is  a  child  ! "  cried  Jack  Evans,  the  engineer. 

In  an  instant  more  't  will  be  crushed  to  death  ! 
Not  e'en  a  moment  impeded  by  fear, 

Jack  springs,  e'er  drawing  another  breath, 
Swiftly  in  front  of  the  breathing  smoke-stack  ! 

In  time,  and  no  more — he  grasps  the  fair  child. 
Springs  forward  and  just  in  time  from  the  track, 

To  see  th'  joy'd  mother  ;  who  gratefully  smil'd. 
Though  praised  by  th'  mother  for  the  brave  deed 
done. 

Jack  merely   said,  when   she   thanked   him   and 
Heaven  : 

'  Founded  on  the  heroic  act  of  one  Jack  Evans  in  saving  the 
life  of  a  child,  in  the  spring  of  1874.  He  vi^as  at  the  time  an 
engineer  on  the  Chicago,  Burlington  &  Quincy  Railway. 
Published  in  the  Inter-Ocean. 


Will  You  Remember  Me?  129 

"You  had  better  take  care  of  that  young  one  !  " 
As  he  gave  her  the  child — advice  well  given. 

Jack  Evans,  although  unknown  to  the  world, 
Is  as  great  a  hero  as  fame  ever  knew  ; 

'Though  time  has  a  number  of  heroes  impearl'd. 
This  brave  deed  of  Jack's  belongs  to  the  few. 


WILL  YOU  REMEMBER  ME  ? 

"\  1  rHEN  I  am  gone,  and  friends  of  thine 

*  '     Who  may  be  near  and  dear  to  thee, 
Are  gathered  round  thyself  divine, 
Will  you,  fair  friend,  remember  me  ? 

When  Morn  light  to  the  world  doth  bring, 
When  birds  pour  forth  their  melody, 

Awakening  from  her  sleep  sweet  Spring, 
Will  you,  fair  one,  remember  me  ? 

When  Spring  hath  gone,  and  Summer  sweet 
Beholds  the  blooming  flower  and  thee. 

And  Heaven  once  more  seems  Earth  to  greet, 
Will  you,  e'en  then,  remember  me  ? 

When  Autumn  comes,  with  her  decay — 
When  brown  and  sere  each  towering  tree — 

And  I  am  absent,  far  away, 

Oh,  say  !  will  you  remember  me  ? 


I30  Poems  of  the  Plains. 

When  winter  shakes  his  hoary  locks, 
And  life  seems  but  a  mockery  ; 

When  th'  blast  the  moaning  forest  rocks, 
Undimm'd,  will  you  remember  me  ? 

When  twilight  comes  at  eventide, 
And  Luna  walks  in  beauty  free, 

O'er  fields  of  ether,  endless  wide, 
Will  you  still,  still  remember  me  ? 


IRENE. 


C\^  •'  What !  is  she  a  child  of  earth? 
^-^   She  ever  must  have  been  divine  ; 
Such  loveliness  could  ne'er  had  birth 
Save  at  Heaven's  sweet  glorious  shrine. 

'T  was  thus  I  thought  when  first  I  gazed 

Upon  the  beauty  of  Irene  ; 
Her  wondrous  wealth  of  charms  amazed 

Where'er  she  moved,  in  beauty,  queen. 

The  glory  of  her  perfect  face  ! 

There  's  naught  with  which  to  it  compare  ; 
Nor  light  reveals  one  radiant  grace 

More  sweet,  nor  gloom  one  veils  more  fair. 

It  was  the  fount  of  all  things  good 

Springing  from  out  the  soul  and  heart. 

As  rare  books  breathe  intellectual  food- 
Love,  knowledge,  science,  poetry,  and  art. 


Metaphysical,  131 

When  she  deign'd  to  come,  though  last  or  first, 

To  mingle  at  the  fane  or  ball, 
*T  was  like  when  through  the  darkness  burst 

The  glorious  sun,  illuming  all. 

1875. 


METAPHYSICAL. 

/^NCE,  lately,  weary  with  the  world, 
^        Myself,  and  all  mankind,  I  roved, 
And  chanc'd  to  wander  where  impearl'd 

That,  by  all,  save  the  soulless,  loved — 
That  beauty  which  enthralls  the  heart. 

Creating  love  both  pure  and  deep. 
That  haunts  us  when  we  from  it  part. 

Like  some  fair  phantom  in  our  sleep. 
A  stream  went  murmuring  on  its  way, 

O'ergrown  with  flowers  of  every  hue, 
All  blooming  fresh  as  showers  of  May, 

As  sweet  as  Hybla's  honey  dew, 
A  fairy-land  hid  in  the  vale, 

Far  from  the  world's  hypocrisy  ; 
It  seemed  to  be  where  none  could  fail 

From  Nature  learn  to  wiser  be. 
Tree,  bush  and  flower  to  breeze  did  nod — 

To  breeze  that  gently  whisper'd  nigh, 
And  like  fair  Messengers  of  God 

The  white-winged  clouds  went  gliding  by. 
Perplexed  with  doubt  which  filled  the  night. 

Like  evil  things  that  haunt  the  air, 


132  Poeius  of  the  Plains. 

Beyond  the  stars  and  moon  for  light, 

I  sent  to  God  an  earnest  prayer. 
O'er  me  the  waken'd  trees  sigh'd  even, 

Or  seemed  to  sigh  at  my  distress — 
With  fervent  sympathy,  high  Heaven, 

It  seemed,  looked  down  as  if  to  bless. 
The  breeze  that  murmured,  solemnly. 

By  me  in  solitude,  alone. 
Did  suddenly  seem  unto  me, 

A  whisper  from  the  Great  Unknown  ! 


TIME'S  MOMENTOUS  FLIGHT. 

'T^IME  ever  passes  on  his  way 

Mowing  with  unswerving  scythe  ; 
He  stops  not  for  the  sad  nor  gay — 
Not  for  the  blighted  heart  nor  blithe. 

'T  is  wise  not  to  forget,  therefore. 
When  joy  dissolves  our  bitter  care. 

That  many  souls  are  sorrow-sore — 

That  throbbing  hearts  well-nigh  despair. 

The  coming  hour  which  Time  creates, 
May  be  the  last  to  us  or  them— 

So  dark,  mysterious  are  the  fates — 
So  closely  doth  the  Unknown  hem  ! 

1876. 


To  the  F.  L.  M.  Society.  I33 


TRUE   FRIENDS. 

OH,  you  were  loving  friends  to  me, 
When  other  friends  I  numbered  few- 
A  haven  in  life's  stormy  sea 

I  freely  found  with  yours  and  you. 

I  'm  sailing,  as  the  clouds  go  by, 

And  see  the  port  my  bark  would  gain  ; 

The  sun  shines  brighter  in  the  sky,  ^ 
And  clearer  grows  the  flowery  main  ! 


TO  THE  Y.  L.  M.  S.  OF  TOPEKA. 

O  SISTERS,  in  a  noble  work, 
You  're  building  for  Eternity  ; 
No  thieves  around  your  treasures  lurk, 
In  temples  safe  above  the  sea. 

Your  souls  grow  whiter  from  your  deeds. 
Your  hearts  more  tender  day  by  day  ; 

Ye  rise  above  the  clouds  of  creeds, 
And  bask  within  God's  brightest  ray. 


134  Poems  of  the  Plains. 


THE  GARDEN  OF  THE  MIND. 

/^H,  weed  the  weeds  unsightly 

From  the  garden  of  the  mind, 
That  flowers  of  thought  bloom  brightly 
In  beauty  fair  enshrined. 

That  the  fragrance  of  those  flowers 
Waft  in  glory  o'er  the  earth, 

And  forever  through  the  hours 
Lead  to  better,  brighter  birth. 

That  the  angels,  all  immortal, 

In  their  purity  and  grace, 
Smile  adown  from  Heaven's  portal 

On  the  wondrous  human  race. 


DEATH  AND  IMMORTALITY. 

Q  HE  lies  upon  her  dying  pillow. 

Her  spirit  struggling  to  be  free. 
Which  hears  that  sea's  eternal  billow 
Speaking  of  Immortality  ! 

And  still  it  lingers  (fearing  danger). 
In  leaving  home  upon  the  earth  ; 

It  hesitates  to  go,  a  stranger, 

To  world  beyond  its  coming  birth. 


In  a  Weary  Land.  I35 

Her  spirit's  cry  went  out  afar, 

To  one  o'er  which  time  's  no  restraint : 

It  pierced  beyond  the  outmost  star, 
To  spirit  that  had  grown  a  saint. 

He  heard  her  in  his  heavenly  mansion 
Afar,  remote  from  earth  and  time, 

That  cry  had  bridged  the  wide  expansion 
With  mighty  spirit  power  sublime. 

As  thought,  quick  through  immensity. 
He  passed  and  reached  her  lowly  bed, 

Where  she  lies  dying,  soon  to  be 
A  bright  immortal,  from  the  dead. 


IN  A  WEARY  LAND. 

'\J  EARS  ago,  in  a  weary  land, 

■^       I  roamed  from  my  native  shore, 

Through  forests  wide,  o'er  torrid  sand, 

A  land  where  ne'er  I  'd  been  before. 

Here  mountains  towering  against  the  sky. 
Above  the  clouds  and  thunders'  roar. 

Frowned  at  the  crouching  shadows  nigh, 
Which  lay  like  fierce  death  at  the  door. 

From  out  the  earth  grew  a  radiant  flower, 
Out  of  that  flower  a  star  arose. 

And  upward  ascended  every  hour, 
Till  in  heaven  it  sweetly  glows. 


136  Poems  of  the  Plains. 

It  gave  my  heart  a  brighter  ray, 

It  warmed  my  veins  like  generous  wine  ; 

It  seemed  like  a  thought  conceived  at  day, 
By  a  peerless  spirit  divine. 

Though  long  I  've  hated,  still  do  hate, 
That  land  with  its  dreary  story. 

Yet  blest  I  feel,  I  there  dared  fate, 
When  I  think  of  that  star  of  glory. 

My  soul  still  roams  to  the  regions  vast, 
Of  which  it  is  rash  to  be  proud, 

For  a  sweet  face  looks  from  out  the  past 
Like  an  angel  from  an  inky  cloud. 


THE   VENDETTA. 

A    TRAGIC    ROMANTIC     POEM. 
IN    FIVE    CANTOS. 


The  peculiar  custom  of  retaliation  denominated  Vendetta, 
sanctioned  by  the  superstitious  religion  of  the  Corsicans,  is 
the  theme  on  which  this  poem  is  founded.  Years  ago  two 
certain  Corsican  families  became  very  hostile  toward  each 
other,  through  a  fierce  quarrel  arising  between  two  individu- 
als, members  of  the  respective  families,  ending  in  murder. 
Glenore  Gonzails,  the  leading  character  of  this  poem,  and  the 
last  surviving  member  of  one  of  these  families,  was  compelled 
to  fly  from  his  country  for  safety.  Having  been  outlawed,  he 
became  an  independent  sea-rover,  in  order  to  accomplish  the 
fulfilment  of  his  Vendetta  vow,  since  that  mode  of  life  seemed 
to  offer  the  surest  and  most  available  means  ;  in  which  capac- 
ity his  aim  was  accomplished  by  his  slaying  all  of  the  remain- 
ing connections  of  the  opposing  Vendetta  ;  and  he  soon  after- 
ward obliterated  his  own — -felo  de  se. 


DEDICATION. 

TIJ^RIENDS  !  whom  I  meet  as  time  speeds   swift 

away, 
Creating  flowers  that  bloom  and  then  decay  ; 
Friends  !  whom  hitherto  I  've  met  at  fane  and  fete, 
In  thought  I  'm  wandering   o'er  sweet  Memory's 

track 
With    you,    through    yest   of    Time's  o'erchanging 

date, 
While  vista  visions  fondly  tempt  me  back. 
Though  pain  's  allied  with  pleasure  of  this  beam. 
If  with  the  thorns  the  flowers  yet  living  seem. 
Wherefore    should    I    complain    of    life's    strange 

dream  ! 
Oh  !  breathes  one  spot,  man's  home,  remote  or  near, 
One  spot  more  beautiful  than  earth  elsewhere. 
Where  joy  doth  ever  make  that  home  most  dear — 
Where  never  come  the  mourners,  Misery  and  Care  ? 
Dear  friends,  if  such  a  land  of  beauty  smiles. 
May  Heaven  direct  that  there  your  future  whiles. 
In  fondest  love  for  you — old  friends  and  new, — 
With  wish  your  hopes  may  have  no  bitter  sting, 
But  that  each  life  may  be  one  long  sweet  spring. 
This  metrical  romance  I  sing  to  you. 
139 


THE  VENDETTA. 


CANTO  THE  FIRST. 


\\T HEN  stars  are  peeping  through  day's  gloam- 
ing glow, 
In  ocean  reflecting,  in  billowy  flow, 
At  twilight,  when  no  grim  shadow  of  night, 
Like  ghouls,  have  stalked  in  wake  of  the  light. 
Gently,  the  soul  feels  that  soft  pensive  care. 
Mingle  so  sweetly,  love,  hope,  and  despair — 
Which  melancholy  doth  so  fairly  define. 
That  th'  poet  breathes  in  pathos  divine  ! — 
Rise  thoughts  of  the  dead,  the  absent,  and  lost. 
Which  crowding  on,  are  o'er  memory  toss'd  ; 
Though  some  through  the  vortex  of  misery  gleam, 
Which  best  were  dropped  in  Lethe's  sweet  stream. 
Pleasures  and  pains  of  the  past  gliding  by, 
A  tribute  claim  though  it  be  but  a  sigh. 
Such  now  is  the  hour — far  out  on  the  sea, 
Where  wild  waves  roll  calm — then  toss  boundlessly, 
Unfetter'd — unhamper'd — brook  no  control. 
Like  one  who,  though  kind,  has  a  lofty  soul — 
Then  placid,  breathe  low,  like  the  pensive  sigh 
Of  some  restless  spirit,  on,  passing  by, — 
A  bark  bears  on  with  looming  sails  and  shrouds— 
A  phantom  ship  floats  shadowy  in  th'  clouds. 
141 


142  The   Vendetta. 

She  seems  so  white — so  weird  each  spreading  sail — 

High  o'er  the  wave,  unruffled  by  the  gale. 

As  Bellerophon's  far,  aerial  flight 

Through  realms  of  Phoebus — o'er  regions  of  Night — 

In  ascent  through  space,  by  ambition  driven 

Astride  of  Pegasus,  into  high  Heaven — 

Fleeting  onward — upward — swiftly  now  flies 

Past  Iris'  beautiful  home  in  the  skies — 

Striving  vainly  toward  Mount  Olympus  afar. 

Where  dwell  the  mystical  gods  of  war. 

How  beautiful  this  bark  bearing  away 

O'er  the  blue  wave,  through  the  sparkling  spray  ! 

Is  there  aught  more  perfect  beneath  the  sky  ? 

Trust  not  too  far  the  wisdom  of  the  eye  : 

Th'  flower  in  looks  superb  may  have  no  fragrant  part; 

The  lovely  girl  may  be  without  a  heart ; 

Yon  vessel  blessed  with  such  fair  outward  show, 

To  all  she  meets  brings  but  the  greatest  woe. 

A  buccaneer,  she  swiftly  wings  the  wave. 

Which  e'er  to  meet,  is  but  to  meet  the  grave, 

And  to  acknowledge  Death's  superior  power ; 

No  petty  ruler  of  the  fleeting  hour 

Does  she  allegiance  or  alliance  owe. 

Nor  her  fierce  crew  that  naught  of  mercy  know — 

'T  is  death  to  each — to  all — to  every  foe. 

That  scarlet  banner  ^  flying  to  the  breeze. 

Would  make  in  all  the  warmest  heart-blood  freeze, 

Could  each  discern  with  closest  scrutiny 

The  signs  ^  she  bears  of  brute  ferocity. 

****** 

'  The  pirate  flag.  "^  The  skull  and  cross-bones. 


A  Tragic  Romantic  Poem,  143 

Sad  was  the  soul  of  the  chieftain,  Gonzails, 
Lost  on  his  ears  were  the  ocean's  wild  wails  ; 
He  stood  on  the  deck  like  a  lofty  rock 
Amid  the  wild  hurricane's  wrathful  shock  — 
A  vacant  stare  slept  down  deep  in  his  eye — 
Soul  distant  th'  body  as  earth  to  the  sky  ; 
Yet  plain  to  friend,  and  foe,  and  passer-by. 
There  crouched  a  sleeping  demon  in  his  eye, 
Which  when  aroused,  the  wildest,  fiercest  shocks 
Of  nature's  wrath  feebly  his  anger  mocks. 
As  plainly  to  the  view  he  now  doth  stand. 
The  last  on  earth  of  Vinci's  large  proud  band, 
'T  is  clear  to  see  how  looks  the  corsair  brave, 
The  chieftain  of  the.  rovers  of  the  wave  ; 
His  large  athletic  form  commands  respect 
Through  fear  ;  his  eyes  the  midnight  storm  reflect ; 
Like  mountain  lion  he  would  ne'er  retreat. 
But  dare  e'en  death.      From  head  unto  his  feet 
A  model  of  great  strength  is  he  't  is  plain  ! 
His  fierce  black  eyes  grow  soft,  then  fierce  again. 
Wild  his  looks — face  handsome,  yet  one  to  fear, — 
He  seems  a  god  down  fallen  from  his  sphere  ; 
His  dress  is  plain — a  cloth  suit  raven  black  ; 
'Round  him  belted,  of  trusty  arms  no  lack. 
His  dark  hair  dangles  wanton  in  the  wind  ; 
High  and  broad  his  brow — his  no  common  mind. 
He  moves  the  true  embodiment  of  grace — 
His  heart  masked  by  a  proud  and  haughty  face. 
Had  he  not  been  th'  victim  of  others'  wrong. 
He   would   have    shown    a  great  light   'midst  the 
throng. 


144  The   Vendetta. 

A  noble  spirit  naturally  was  his, 

But  warp'd  by  crime  and  harden'd  by  it ;  this, 

And  taught  from  childhood  that  for  him  it  was 

Revenge  to  seek  for  his  religion's  cause, 

Had  changed  him,  made  him  what  we  see  him  here, 

The  wicked,  brave,  and  hapless  chief  all  fear. 

Then  judge  him  not  too  quickly  in  his  sin  : 

Put  in  his  place,  know  you  what  you  'd  have  been  ? 

The  Tiger'  fled  on  through  yeast  of  waves, 
Leaving  foam  in  her  wake  each  soft  ripple  laves. 
"  Land   ho  !  "  shrieks    th'  look-out    far   up    in  the 

shrouds ; 
A  phantom  he  looks — a  ghost  in  the  clouds. 
A  moment  scarce  fled  since  th'  cry,  when  on  lee 
Of  th'  deck  rose  pirates  like  fiends  from  the  sea. 
Each  in  his  hat  wore  an  ebon  black  plume. 
The  heart's  reflection  . — to  death  do  we  doom  ! 
They  seek  a  glimpse  of  their  green  island  home, 
Where  they  find  peace  in  Nepenthe's  dark  tome. 
The  wine-cup  yielding  relief  to  the  soul — 
Forgetfulness  found  in  flow  of  the  bowl  ; 
Intemperance  to  them  the  speedy  resource, 
A  Lethe  to  drown  pain,  grief,  and  remorse  ; 
A  dear-bought  boon,  for  with  tenfold  power. 
Gaunt  Misery  comes  to  haunt  the  hour — 
As  wealth  the  miser  gets,  though  Heaven  the  cost, 
Who  gains  what  murders  Happiness  fearfully  hath 

lost, 
As  Man  did  Woman  gain,  her  price  a  future  Hell ! 
'  The  rover's  ship. 


A  Tragic  Romantic  Poem.  145 

Is  it  not  told  in  sacred  writ,  that  man  by  woman 

fell? 

*****  ^- 

Fair  Cynthia  blushing  bids  th'  earth  adieu, 
Now  Phoebus  walks  the  azure  heavens  anew  ; 
The  isle  they  near  grows  plainer  to  the  sight. 
And  shows  the  cannon,  opemouth'd  for  the  fight — 
Prepared  for  battle  should  a  battle  call — 
Defiance  breathing  from  the  beetling  wall. 
And  too  with  bold  ensign,  the  blood-red  flag 
Floats  proudly  out  from  its  rocky  crag. 
Reflecting  Hades  mirrored  in  its  glare, 
And  reads  no  mercy,  but  to  all  despair. 
From  ship  to  shore,  from  shore  to  ship,  a  cheer 
Pays  back  the  donor  with  a  voice  as  clear, 
When  shout  on  shout  by  these  approaching  friends 
Re-echoes  o'er  the  mountains,  through  the  glens. 
Behold  the  joy  !  call'd  forth  on  time's  face-track. 
Which  'lures  the  wanderer  in  memory  back  ! 
The  crowd  on    shore,  the   guard,  bold  men  who 

dare — 
Women's  soft  presence  also  welcomes  there, 
Their  sweet  joy  embittered  with  tort'rous  pain. 
As  wildly  o'er  the  ship  their  dark  eyes  strain  ! 
For  husbands,  lovers,  friends  !  came  each  again  ! 
'Gainst  hope  they  fear  ]  for  doth  not  each  corsair 
His  life,  his  earth,  his  Heaven  doubly  dare  ! 
Lo  !  hope  hath  won  and  vanquished  every  fear — 
The  cruise  each  rover  liv'd,  and  now  is  here  ! 
The  smile,  the  kiss,  the  fond  caress  returning, 


146  The   Vendetta, 

Each  happy  couple  now  hymeneal  yearning, 
Soon  seek  the  flowery  grove's  sequester'd  shade, 
A  perfumed  bower  for  love — love  long  delay'd  ; 
We  leave  to  them  fond  Cupid's  sylvan  bower, 
Where  love  and  passion  rule  the  cytherean  hour. 
*****  -^ 

But  where  is  he,  Gonzails  ?  had  he  no  one 
'Midst  all  the  fair  whom  he  could  call  his  own  ? 
Ah,  yes  !  he  loved  and  was  beloved  by  one, 
A  peerless  beauty  of  the  burning  sun. 
Whose  love  was  pure  as  heaven's  clearest  streams  ; 
She  loved  him  as  the  Poet  loves  his  dreams  ! 
The  chief  one  was  she  of  her  island  sex, 
Not  her  wish  but  his  who  lovingly  decks 
Her  snowy  neck  and  arms  with  jewels  rare. 
Who  lessen'd  sadness — sooth'd  each  pensive  care. 
From  those  that  pass'd  their  time  in  revelry, 
With  some  loved  servants  of  her  own  sex,  she 
Lived  in  a  tower  old,  looming  gray  and  high 
Far  o'er  the  earth,  whose  turret  frets  the  sky  ; 
And  long  this  castle,  dim  in  shadows  strewn. 
Had  towering  nodded  to  the  queenly  moon — 
The  moon,  who  in  her  bower  beyond  the  earth 
Beholds  each  beauteous  infant  star  at  birth. 
From  the  tower  had  heard  the  plaint  of  mortals  sad^ 
And  the  fierce  watch-dog,  baying  hoarse  and  mad. 
For  many  long,  long  years  of  weal  and  woe  ; 
And  ofttimes  heard  when  loud  the  wild  winds  blow^ 
And  angry  tempest  blacks  the  scowling  sky, 
The  waking  eaglets'  wild  and  startled  cry. 
High  nestled  in  the  tower,  midway  from  the  storm, 


A  Tragic  Romantic  Poem.  147 

Feeling  the  damp  air  which  chills  each  naked  form. 

Erected  by  some  misanthrope  of  old, 

The  castle  warred  with  time  and  heat  and  cold 

For  ages  long — generations  had  flown, 

While  owl,  bat,  and  spider  held  it  their  own. 

Chance  led  the  bold  pirate  to  the  lone  isle 

Deserted  by  man,  though  wreathed  nature's  smile. 

As  shields  a  mother  with  the  fondest  care, 

From  earth's  unprincipled  votaries  there, 

Her  daughter,  beautiful,  lovely,  and  chaste, 

So  nature  hid  the  isle  in  ocean's  wide  waste. 

A  spot  of  earth  in  the  tropical  clime — 

A  spot  unchang'd  to  all  save  restless  Time — 

Nameless    and   unknown    to    the   world  ;     though 

sweet 
To  those  who  called  it  the  "  Corsair's  Retreat  !  " 
'T  was  here  the  lovely  Peris  whilom  said. 
Soft  Night  with  ebon  Darkness  ne'er  had  fled, 
Than  loving  Nature's  music  sweetly  borne. 
Floated  around,  while  bright  tears  freely  shed 
The  wondrous  beauteous  eyes  of  weeping  Morn — 
And  peerless  though  in  falling  tears  so  sad  ; 
Herself  is  Beauty,  whether  gay  or  mad  ! 
Are  these  the  flowing  tears  of  joy  or  grief 
Which  add    new  charms   to   blooming  flower  and 

leaf  ? 
They  both  commingle  fondly,  sweetly  there. 
Thus  genially  with  soul  of  happiness  or  care, 
Hope  guides  the  bark  of  life,  tho'  at  the  helm  De- 
spair. 
The  island  bloom'd,  in  fragrance  rich  and  rare  ; 


148  The   Vendetta. 

Long  each  crystal  stream,  prolific  there, 
In  gorgeous  splendor  flourish'd  sweet  parterre  ; 
Here  'midst  this  beauty,  the  castle  rose  in  air. 
Here,  where  the  tall  tower's  high  turret  broke 
The  sky,  Gonzails'  love  lived  ;  there  her  sweet  voice 

'woke 
The  silence  of  the  twilight  hour,  between 
Day's  golden  reign  and  Night's  more  sombre  scene, 
When  sweet  stars  come  and  greet  their  silent  queen. 
Thus  sang  the  Beauty,  in  her  bower,  unseen  : 
*'  Though  thou  dost,  chaste  Diana  !  come  ! 
Though  thou,  sweet  star,  in  beauty  roam  ! 
You  have  no  charms,  no  charms  for  me, 
Who  craves  the  absent  lov'd  to  see  ! 
Thou  mayest  come  in  glory.  Light  ! 
And  thou  in  robes  imperial,  Night  ! 
For  e'er  the  same,  thy  children,  Time  ! 
My  life,  my  love,  is  true,  sublime  !  " 
A  sad  and  plaintive  lay  for  that  one  far  away, 
Amid  the  storm  of  battle,  or  wind's  fitful  play  ; 
One  chain'd   unto  a  crime— the  fetters  link'd  by 

Fate, 
Death  only  could  unbind  Ate's  red  chain  of  hate  ! 
The  hour  of  birth  saw  his  destiny  on  his  brow  ; 
Stern  Fate  he  could  not  'scape— to  him  each,  all  do 

bow  ! — 
An  oath  religious  bound,  cemented  by  a  vow. 
Then  judge  him  not  in  pride,  in  hasty,  thoughtless 

scorn. 
Nor  she  who  clung  to  him  in  the  tie  of  passion's 

morn, 


A  Tragic  Romantic  Poem.  149 

Proud   Beauty  by  chance    to  wealth   wedded  and 

born. 
Since  Fate  decreed,  she  for  love  had  freely  given 
Her  all  on  earth  to  him,  and  risk'd  her  claims  for 

Heaven. 
While  thus  she  sang  she  felt  the  gloomy  painful 

fear  : 
"  Will  I  e'er  meet  again  him  whom  my  heart  holds 

dear  ? " 
Thus  ne'er  do   love's   sweet   pangs  sway  mortal's 

heart, 
Than  watchful  Nature  the  mixture  doth  instill 
Of  fear  and  misery,  where  Cupid's  dreamy  dart 
Hath   pierced,    leaving   the   wretch    in    agony   to 

smart — 
Afraid  earth's  temporal  pleasures  may  so  fill 
Enamoured  heart  and  soul,  all  else  forgot, 
The  soul  too  far  will  stray  from  Heaven,  its  destin'd 

lot. 
Peerless  in  her  beauty,  Inez,  fair  of  face  and  form, 
Loving  the  chief,  Gonzails,  with  passions  deep  and 

warm. 
If  her   life   fail'd    perfection — alas  !    whose    earth 

lives  are  ? 
There  glow'd,  as  through  the  darkness  at  midnight 

glows  a  star. 
One  priceless  virtue  from  her  faults,  too  precious 

to  be  bought — 
Charity  !  that  virtue — pure  as  an  angel's  thought — 
Her  lovely  mirror  eyes,  of  beauty's  sweetest  mould, 
Reflecting  her  pure  spirit's  wondrous  image  told — 


150  The  Veridetta. 

As  kiss  of  wandering  zephyr  on  the  hidden  bloom 
Its  sweets  abroad  doth  scatter,  th'  hills  and  vales 
perfume. 

CANTO    THE    SECOND. 

A  H  !  here  's  what  allures,  here  's  what  entices, 
Leads  man  to  virtue  or  deep  into  vices  ; 
Nor  sylph  nor  nymph  more  graceful  than  is  she, 
Fair  Inez,  th'  beautiful  "  Pearl  of  the  Sea," 
With  soul  as  spotless  as  fresh-fallen  snow. 
Ere  mixed  with  impure  of  earth  down  below  ; 
With  charms  of  person  so  wondrously  fair 
That  the  loveliest  belle  might  well  despair 
To  rival  the  beauty  that  was  enshrined 
In  her  form  and  face,  which  both  combined. 
A  pearl  she  was,  if  perfection  implies, 
With  carmine  lips  and  her  dark  lustrous  eyes. 
And  brow  as  fair  as  the  pale  lily  white. 
Or  airy  snow-flake  on  th'  far  mountain  height ; 
With  tresses  flowing  luxuriantly  to  view. 
Of  shade  'twixt  raven's  plume  and  hyacinthine  hue  ; 
Cheek  damask,  teeth  of  pearl,  a  smile  of  purest 

love. 
She  looked  a  sacred  being  fresh  from  God  above  ; 
Whom  sweet  false  hopes  did  down  to  sinful  earth 

entice, 
Heaven's  sweetest  one  misled  by  fate  from  Para- 
dise. 
Like  a  pearl  she  was  ta'en  from  the  dark  rolling  sea, 
The  only  one  saved  from  the  wreck  of  the  Bee, 


A  Tragic  Romantic  Poem.  1 5 1 

Which,  ere  it  went  down,  nobly  struggled  the  wave  ; 
Like  a  soul  it  seemed  to  beg  Heaven  to  save. 
As  though  in  its  vitals  was  buried  a  knife. 
The  vessel  plunged  wildly — a  creature  of  life. 
Lash'd  to  a  spar  by  the  lov'd  ones  who  'd  given 
Her  life,  she  was  kissed,  with  a  prayer  to  Heaven  : 
"  Save  our  child  from  the  deep  !  shield  her  delicate 

form  ! 
Save" — The  voice    was  lost   in  the  shriek  of  the 
storm. 

****** 
The  Tiger  sailed  on  toward  the  corsair's  isle, 
Each  rippling  wave  lit  by  a  sunbeam's  smile. 
'Mid  the  flapping  shrouds  Gonzails  sat  on  high  ; 
Hard  by  his  old  pilot  he  view'd  the  sky 
And  the  wave  where  the  storm  had  been  so  late  ; 
And  he  sighed,  when  he  thought,  this  child  of  fate, 
Of  those  that  perished  in  the  deep,  perforce  ; 
Saying  :  "  Would  t'  God  they  'd  lived,  not  I  "—re- 
morse 
For  his  life  he  felt— but  lo  !  his  eyes  keen. 
Now  some  strange  object  in  the  sea  have  seen. 
Swift  he  goes  to  th'  deck  and  mans  a  boat, 
And  soon  he  takes  from  the  sea,  afloat. 
With  his  own  hands,  a  lovely  girl,  so  fair, 
He  thought  her  some  immortal  child  of  air. 
Inez  was  the  jewel  cast  up  by  th'  storm. 
Snatched  out  of  Death's  jaws   life  fluttered  back 

warm. 
Gonzails  lov'd  her,  and  swore  to  shield  her  from 
harm, 


152  The   Vendetta. 

Though  it  took   the  last  drop  from  his  good  right 

arm. 
So  radiant  and  so  beautiful  was  she, 
Found  on  th'  wave,  he  named  her  "  Pearl  of  the 

Sea." 

****** 

What  is  that  which  oft  lures  the  wanderer  on, 
When  vanished  and  lost,  life's  pleasures  are  gone  ? 
'T  is  Hope,  who  comes  like  the  smile  of  the  spring. 
And  sweet   is   that   life   where  waves   her   bright 

wing. 
As  the  seaman  becalm'd  feels  his  cheeks  warmer 

grow, 
When  first   breathes   the  monsoon   in  whisperings 

low. 
Despair    cries  :    "  In    vain  !  " — life's    burdensome 

song  ; 
Hope  whispers  :  *'  Thou  'It  conquer  !  with  Faith  go 

along  !  " 
In  visions  e'en  is  felt  this  wondrous  power  ; 
When  lost  to  reason,  Somnus  claims  the  hour. 
'T  is  night !  wild,  deep,  black,  dread,  profound, 
One  floats  the  air,  now  flies  the  ground  ; 
A  stranger  to  himself  he  seems, 
His  brain  with  vagaries  wildly  teems  ; 
He  nears  a  gulf  of  Horrors,  flees. 
And  more  imagines  than  he  sees  ; 
For  soon  Hell  opens  to  the  gaze, 
Where  sights  and  sounds  the  senses  craze. 
Hell's  minions — ghastly  grinning  crew 
Now  burst  in  terror  on  the  view  ;  ^ 


A  Tragic  Rommttic  Poem.  153 

And  Satan  claims  his  victim  even — 

But  lo  !  from  open'd  cloud  of  heaven, 

Almighty  God  appears,  profoundly  saith  : 

"  I  will    thee    save  !     Hope    thou  !     In   Me  have 

faith  !  " 
Like  wolves  when   foiled  of   prey  for  which  they 

prowl, 
Th'  Satanic  host,  each  face  a  malignant  scowl, 
Now  disappears  with  dismal,  baffled  howl. 
Hope  wins  ;  the  sleeper  smiles  in  joy  once  more  ; 
Night  leaves  the  soul,  and  Light  illumes  before. 
The  days  and  nights  Inez  pass'd  in  the  tower, 
Alone  she  liv'd  in  her  secluded  bower, 
Like  some  sweet,  solitary  forest  flower 
Breathing  unseen — the  loveliest  'neath  the  sky — 
Too  fair  to  meet  the  rude  world's  vulgar  eye. 
As  the  fond  wretch,  to  misery  given. 
Longs  for  the  elysian  bliss  of  Heaven, 
This  sybaritic  syren  sighs  and  pines 
For  the  ecstatic  bliss  she  only  finds — 
A  passionate  joy  that  soothes  and  charms — 
In  the  warm  embrace  of  her  lover's  arms. 
Thus  even  as  she  longs,  Gonzails,  as  warm. 
Is  hastening  to  clasp  her  melting  form. 


'Midst  Inez's  sorrow,  Hope's  light  dimmer  grows— 
Till  morn  of  joy  breaks  sweetly  on  her  woes  ! 
She  's  happy  !  he  comes  !  her  lover  !  't  is  bliss 
To  see  him  !  O  life  !  that  ye  ever  were  this — 
As  blissful  as  the  bliss  the  angels  feel 


154  The   Vendetta. 

When  the  soul — thought  lost — to  high  Heaven  doth 

kneel  ! 
Fierce  Fear  hath  vanish'd — now  Joy  takes  her  role, 
And  lifts  the  dark  cloud  from  off  Inez's  soul, 
Revealing  the  long-hidden  smiles  that  trace 
And  illume  the  bright  beauty  of  her  face. 
As  the  rose  which  Winter  doth  long  oppress. 
Comes  forth  in  its  beauty  at  Spring's  caress — 
Its  tender  sweetness  for  a  time  unseen 
Hath  but  increased  tenfold  more  I  ween  ! 
Oh,  Joy  !  the  light  of  her  young  life  doth  dawn  ! 
Inez,  enraptured,  smiles  happy,  't  is  one 
Of  all  on  earth,  that  claims  each  tear,  each  sigh — 
'T  is  life  to  welcome — 't  is  death  to  bid  good-bye. 
How  truly  very  fond,  how  fondly  true 
The  love  of  the  beauty  that  glides  to  view, 
Is  evinced  in  actions — in  glances  thrown 
Toward  him  swift  coming  o'er  the  meadow  mown. 
As  hast'ning  meets  'neath  the  mistletoe  bough. 
That  one — her  lover — where  pledg'd  was  their  vow. 
No  less  he  return'd  her  passion  so  warm — 
She  th'  star  of  his  night — the  calm  in  life's  storm. 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

As  th'  snow-flake  lives  in  ocean,  life  lives  in  the 

sea  of  Time, 
Man  lives,  dies  soon,  and  sinks  in  ages'  oblivious 

slime. 
In    nation's    storm,    a    flash  ! — in    ages'    night,    a 

dawn  ! — 
Life  on  waves  of  ages  rises,  a  bubble  that  bursts — 

is  gone  ! 


A  Tragic  Romantic  Poem.  1 5  5 

The  good  and  bad  alike  fall  to  oblivious  graves  ! — 
While  through  Eternity  roll  the  ages'  passing  waves. 

CANTO    THE     THIRD. 


T  T  ARK  !    hark  !    what  tocsin  breaks  upon  the 

-^     ear! 

Wild  cry  of  merriment,  and  yell,  and  cheer  ! 

Sounds  of  the  revel  in  the  outlaw's  cave, 

O'er  wines  and  treasures — the  spoils  of  the  wave. 

Strong  libations  from  golden  goblets  pour  ; 

Bacchanalian  songs  mix  with  ocean's  roar  ! 

The  silvery  peal  of  the  siren's  laugh 

Comes  wafting  on  the  breezes'  balmy  quaff, 

From  where  Passion's  ardent  love-lit  glance 

Is  flung  o'er  revellers  in  the  mazy  dance  ; 

Where   eyes   drink   love   from   eyes   with    mutual 

powers, 
As  sips  each  other's  sweets,  Night's  fragrant  flowers, 
While  outlaws  and  their  lemans,  clasp'd  in  love's 

embrace, 
Whirl  through  th'  mazy  dance  to  music's  measured 

pace. 
The  sparkling  wine,  the  drunken  glee, 
Tell  of  their  wild  hilarity. 
By  sybaritic  pleasures  time  's  beguiled  ; 
A  carnival  feast,  a  banquet  wild  : 
Carousals  that  drown  th'  nightmare  of  thought, 
Nepenthe  of  mind,  the  Lethe  oft  sought. 
Guitar  and  lute  combined  and  met 
In  sweet,  wild  tones,  the  castanet  ; 
In  chorus  the  music  rose  and  fell, 


1^6  The   Vendetta. 

Through  vaulted  caverns  with  ocean's  swell. 
The  voluptuous  tune,  th'  seducing  waltz, 
Show'd  grace  and  beauty,  and  hid  the  faults. 
Here  are  Aglaia,  Thalia,  and  Euphrosyne  ; 
Here  rosy-lipped  Bacchus,  the  worship'd  deity 
To  whom  the  outlaws  their  libations  pour. 
The  god  whom  their  wild  savage  souls  adore. 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

Far,  far  from  earth  and  all  the  spheres, 
Etern,  throughout  Eternal  years 
Is  changeless  ;  where  Time's  hand  doth  touch. 
Is  seen  mutation  great  and  much. 
The  sweetest  moments  of  life  fly  past. 
And  helpless  wither  in  death  at  last  ; 
Never  should  mortal  this  thought  forget  : 
'Mid  many  that  enhance  the  minuet. 
E'en  in  her  happiest  hour,  elate, 
The  beauty  bows  to  blast  of  Fate, 
Though  the  most  beautiful  one  is  she. 
Where  all  are  beautiful,  remarkably  ! 
Alas  !  that  the  lovely  and  beautiful  should  fade  ! 
Yet  Fate  decrees  that  Death  shall  reign  unstay'd. 
Till  fleeting  time  hath  ended,  nevermore  to  be. 
And  voices  now  heard  blending,  blithe  and  free. 
Shall  ever  sweetly  echo  throughout  Eternity  ! 
Without  the  fair  scene  nature  is. 
No  revelry,  more  of  Heaven  than  this. 
Here  flows  the  lucid,  sparkling  stream. 
Beneath  the  hot  sun's  scorching  beam, 
O'er  rocks  of  porph'ry,  beds  of  sand. 
Goes  winding,  gliding  through  the  land  ; 


A  Tragic  Romantic  Poem.  157 

At  length  flows  from  its  channel's  bed, 

And,  like  an  apparition,  fled, 

Is  lost  in  ocean's  vasty  bed. 

The  forest  bows  before  the  breeze, 

Where  wild  birds  sing  their  melodies  ; 

And  others  flutter  through  the  trees. 

Which  oft  do  ope  their  foliage  green. 

Where  frightened  deer  has  fled  between. 

Here  myrtle  with  the  ivy  vine, 

In  clinging  tendrils  amorous  twine. 

And  here  and  there  wild  flowers,  serene, 

Fling  soft  their  beauty  o'er  the  scene. 

Here,  lost,  the  mountain  streamlet  stray'd 

Through  meadows  green  and  forest  glade  ; 

Now  winding  east,  now  winding  west. 

As  fearful  where,  which  course  the  best, 

Like  pain  of  thought  which  love  inspires, 

A  soul  still  fluttering  'twixt  two  desires. 

And  here  and  there,  of  rarest  kind, 

The  wild  flower  dances  to  the  wind 

Merrily,  until  tired  with  this, 

She  sleeps — then  wakens  to  the  bliss 

Of  listening  to  her  lover's  voice. 

Which  makes  her  gentle  heart  rejoice  ; 

And  blushes  rise  when  he  caresses — 

Thus,  in  sweet  confusion,  she  confesses 

'T  is  he  alone  her  heart  so  blesses — 

'T  is  he  alone  commands  her  sighs  : 

As  oft  the  loving  wind  replies 

That  she  has  all  his  sympathy. 

Here  frowning  cliffs  o'erhang  the  sea — 


158  The   Vendetta. 

There,  far  beneath,  the  waters  flee. 
Where  skyward  towering,  mammoth  rocks, 
That  firmly  stand  the  mighty  shocks 
Fierce  ocean  heaves  in  wrath,  still  fret 
The  heavens  as  looms  mosque's  minaret. 
Though  round  about  the  storm  may  sweep- 
Far  from  the  shore — high  o'er  the  deep — 
Seeming  like  ghosts  from  giant  tombs, 
There,  warning  of  approaching  dooms. 
Each  mammoth  monster  upward  looms. 
Here  flows  the  tide,  with  fruitless  toil. 
To  move  a  petrean  bar  from  soil, 
Which  ages  will  its  progress  foil — 
Here  and  there  o'er  sweet  halcyon  spots. 
Come  whispering  voices  from  hidden  grots 
As  Nature  speaks  from  earth  or  sky 
Fond  Echo  ever  doth  reply. 
Pale  shadows  flitting  o'er  the  streams, 
Weird  phantoms,  seem,  of  restless  dreams. 
The  owlet  shrieks  from  shaded  perch, 
Th'  squirrel  gay,  dances  on  the  birch  ; 
Fiercely  laughing  th'  hyena  growls — 
Answering  th'  prowling  jackal's  howls. 
The  frightened  dewdrop  doth  retreat 
Between  th'  wild  flower's  petals  sweet. 
The  timid  zephyr,  startled — driven 
On  a  sunbeam  seeks  its  home  in  Heaven. 
A  cadence,  far  out  o'er  the  bay. 
Is  chanted  by  the  wild  winds'  play, 
And  ripples  laughing  at  the  tide. 
Thrown  back  by  breakers  on  its  side. 


A  Tragic  Romantic  Poem.  159 

Seem  merry  as  the  new-made  bride. 

The  zephyr's  sigh  on  rock-bound  shore 

Commingles  with  the  wild  waves'  roar. 

Here  where  the  bay  wide  'gins  to  grow, 

And  stops  the  course  of  streamlet's  flow, 

And  flow  and  ebb  of  tide  to  hem, 

Sparkles  the  hyacinthian  gem. 

Where  waves  kiss  shore  as  oft  they  've  met, 

There  nods  the  sweet  wild  mignonette 

To  gentle  zephyr  floating  nigh, 

Or  breath  of  Heaven  when  passing  by. 

As  in  their  homes  th'  Peris  of  the  sky. 

Lament  that  fate  did  steal  them  from  on  High, 

In  voices  sweet,  but  ah  !  too  sad  to  cloy 

Fond  Beauty's  breast,  which  should  o'erflow  with 

joy. 

Or  wailing  tunes  of  dying  year, 

^olian  harps  sound  far  and  near  ; 

Sweet  melodies  that  seem  to  tell 

Of  a  fond  bower  in  fragrant  dell. 

Where  Love  and  Beauty  sweetly  dwell  ; 

A  spot  profuse  with  Beauty's  sheen 

As  Tempe's  fair,  delightful  scene — 

As  home  of  Israfel,  where  free 

Flows  sweet,  exquisite  melody. 

From  vale  to  mountain-top,  that  looms, 

The  loveliest  growth  of  Nature  blooms. 

The  light  of  Day  once  more  well-nigh  has  fled, 

Sol  sleepy  hangs  o'er  his  hesperian  bed  ; 

While  slow,  with  laurels,  fades  departing  Light, 

Bright  stars  of  beauty  bind  the  brow  of  Night  ! 


i6o  TJie  Vendetta. 

Here,  man,  entranc'd,  fore'er  might  live,  I  ween, 
Drinking  the  wondrous  beauty  of  the  scene. 
In  such  suggestive  spots,  the  wide  world  o'er, 
Live  knowledge  mines,  most  precious  to  explore — 
Where  mystic  lore  is  drank  from  all  around. 
By  one  who  has  a  mind  and  soul  profound — 
One  wise  and  thoughtful — one  who  delves  his  best 
For  secrets  hidden  deep  in  Nature's  breast — 
And  feels  at  heart,  that  yet  the  hour  will  be 
When  he  will  learn  life's  strange,  strange  mystery  ! 
Oft  clouds  flit  o'er  the  chaste  moon's  light, 
And  far  into  the  dreamy  night. 
Where  Will-o'-wisps  in  marshes,  oft  do  leave, 
Th'  deluded  followers  lost,  they  'lure  but  to  de- 
ceive— 
As  in  chaste  robes  by  preacher  worn  and  priest, 
Th'  fawning  knave  and  hypocrite  may  feast  ; 
As  oft  th'  sigh,  the  blush  and  fallen  lid  beguiles, 
And  hides  the  aim  of  the  designing  woman's  wiles. 
Close  in  the  breezes  seeming  dwelt. 
Like  viewless  symphony,  heard  and  felt, 
The  spirits  of  departed  friends — 
Now  near,  now  far,  as  Fancy  lends  : 
High  o'er  those  mystic  lamps  of  night, 
Hanging  to  Heaven's  vaulted  height, 
'Neath  which  the  twilight  hour  oft  whiles — 
To  th'  lover  basking  in  love's  smiles — 
To  all  !  thus  all  false  Time  beguiles  ! 
Afar  upon  the  deep  blue  sea. 
Fair  Nereids  dance  right  merrily. 
To  Nature's  strains  borne  o'er  the  deep. 


A  Tragic  Romantic  Poem.  i6i 

From  lyres  her  airy  fingers  sweep  ; 

Where  waves  in  limpid  beauty  blent, 

Reflect  the  starry  firmament. 

Now  sweetly  in  the  twilight  air 

Floats  bright  form  of  an  angel  there  ; 

Th'  Omnipotent,  in  the  azure  sky, 

Is  mirror'd  faint  to  mortal's  eye. 

Now  shadowy  veils  the  peerless  moon, 

Lo  !  forth  in  silvery  sheen  !  and  soon 

Behind  another  cloud  she  's  flown, 

Th'  imperious  coquette's  heart  is  shown. 

And  now  fair  Luna's  glances  glow, 

In  modesty  from  lake  below, 

Nestled  beneath  the  sylvan  shade — 

The  home  of  dryad,  gnome,  and  naiad  — 

And  many  stars  in  heaven  pending 

Unto  the  lake  its  beauty  lending. 

Now  cloudy  phantoms  race  afar, 

And  swiftly  flit  'neath  pale  lit  star, 

And  fly  across  the  moori  as  fast 

As  thistle-down  before  the  blast  ; 

Thus  proudly  they  through  upper  deep, 

Speed  on  to  death — to  wail  and  weep. 

'T  is  late  !  O'er  th'  nervous  one's  quick  mind 

Steals  th'  thought  :  a  spectre's  in  the  wind  ; 

Who,  next  in  superstitious  fright, 

Hears  some  dark  demon  chuckle  from  the  night. 

'T  is  sweet  on  ocean's  shore  in  solitude  to  be. 
And   hear   the  sad   waves  murmuring  sweet   and 
pensively. 


1 62  TJie   Vendetta. 

*T  is  sweet  to  linger  there  on  the  wild  and  lonely- 
shore, 

And  listen  to  the  music  of  its  sad  and  sullen  roar  ; 

To  the  eternal  monotone  of  restless  sea  and  breeze, 

Of  Nature's  many  voices,  wooing  hard  to  please. 

Thus  e'er  in  all  things  grand  and  dear  to  mortal, 
free. 

Nature  speaks  her  praise  of  God's  profound  sub- 
limity. 

'T  is  sweet  with  friends  to  wander  on  the  pebbly 
beach, 

And  to,  alone,  read  what  Nature's  book  can  teach, 

E'er  open — and  there  invade  the  realm  of  Thought, 
where  sing 

The  Bards  ;  high  soaring  on  fond  imagination's 
wing. 

'T  is  sweet  when  lovely  Morn  her  orient  light  distils. 

And  gladdens  with  her  voice,  plains,  forests,  vales, 
and  hills. 

To  find  night's  horrors  gone,  which  near-by  seemed 
to  be— 

Laughed  off  by  happy  joy — a  nightmare's  phantasy. 

'T  is  sweet  at  noon,  when  Sol  rides  'midway  over- 
head, 

To  weave  a  future  bright — past  disappointments 
fled. 

'T  is  sweet  on  summer's  eve  t'  seek  the  cool,  se- 
questered bower, 

And  while  away  with  one  we  love  the  swiftly  fleet- 
ing hour, 

When  sweet  affection's  tendrils  lovingly  do  bind 


A  Tragic  Romantic  Poem.  163 

Two  trusting  hearts  and  souls  in  one  united  mind  ; 
And  in  the  sylvan  shade,  far  hid  from  all  we  shun, 
To  linger  and  caress  that  lovely,  loving  one  ; 
Who  readily  returns  each  sympathetic  sigh 
Untarnish'd  by  the  world's  cold,  calculating  eye. 
But,  sweeter  far  than  all— to  soul  most  purely  dear- 
Is  an  unselfish  heart  and  conscience  that  is  clear  ; 
Then  all  is  well,  for  Truth  hath  banish'd  Error's 

woes, 
Though  beauteous  Dawn  awakes— though  Twilight 

seeks  repose 
Within  the  gossamer  folds  of  her  voluptuous  bed, 
With  Night's  soft  mantle  lightly  and  gently  o'er  her 

spread. 
Though  life  be  sweet  to  us,  and  sweet  hope's  cher- 
ished dream 
While  floating  on  like  driftwood  adown  the  fatal 

stream, 
We  are  that  which  we  are,  but  what  we  can  but 

deem — 
We  know  not,  but  we  bravely  trust  immortal  as  we 

seem. 

CANTO    THE    FOURTH. 

IN  th'  solitary  dell,  where  wild  winds  sadly  weep, 
The  isle  a  mystery  kept,  as  sometimes  secrets 
keep. 
Oft  there  sounded  afar  an  unearthly  yell. 
As  if  souls  were  struggling  on  the  brink  of  Hell  ; 
This  yell  arising  o'er  sea,  mist  and  gale, 
Seem'd  a  stern  warning  to  th'  wicked  in  its  wail. 


164  The   Vendetta. 

That  cry  at  midnight  rose,  and,  in  the  gloom, 
Uneasy  spirits  shriek'd  madly  their  doom 
With  fiendish  horror  ;  and  e'er  at  night's  noon 
In  darkness  Erebus,  or  'neath  the  pale  moon, 
The  island  shook  at  the  terrible  roar. 
In  the  cave  were  many  spell-bound  to  the  floor 
Till  died  each  demoniac  yell  on  the  wind. 
And  reason  returned  to  the  half-frenzied  mind. 
Save  he,  Gonzails,  who  'd  have  brav'd  th'  hosts  of 

Hell 
In  all  their  fury — fiendish,  fierce,  and  fell, 
Not  even  would  the  boldest  outlaw  dare 
The  sombre  dell — the  weird  gloom  ever  there — 
Where  howls  and  shrieks  of  misery,  death,  despair, 
Came  floating  on  the  dismal  midnight  air. 
As,  close  on  Crime's  track,  of  dark  face  and  form. 
Fierce,  gory  Vengeance  rides  the  rolling  storm. 
'Though  none  had  proof,  suspicion  darkling  fell, 
With  spectres  weird  the  corsair  chieftain  talked  ; 
Holding  communion  in  the  haunted  dell  ; 
At  night-tide  he  alone  with  phantoms  walked. 
'T  was  all  they  dared,  for  they  no  questions  asked  ; 
His  face  they  feared,  a  face  forever  masked. 

'T  was  rumor'd  that  a  bloody  massacre  had  led 
To  the  lost  spirits  of  the  murder'd,  restless  dead. 
Hovering  over  corses  whose  blood  a  foul  foe  shed. 
And  too,  with  many  a  shudder,  't  was  breath'd,  in 

dread, 
They  were  not  ghosts  in  th'  dell  that  shrieked  so 

startling  there  ; 


A   Tragic  Romantic  Poem.  165 

But  th'  fiendish  laugh  of  ten  thousand  demons  on 

th'  air — 
Ten  thousand  demons  mocking  man  in  his  despair. 

****** 
Thou  spirit  of  Eternity's  darkened  space, 
That  giv'st  no  hope  of  thy  shadowy  race, 
Canst  thou  no  solace  find  ?  no  secret  spell  ? 
Lost  wanderer  o'er  earth,  through  gloomy  walks  of 

Hell? 
Debarr'd  from  Heaven,  is  there  no  rest  ? — no  Lethe 

for  thy  woe  ? 
Dost  thou,  strange  being,  not  some  blest  nepenthe 

know  ? 
*'  Lost !  lost  !  lost  !  "     A  voice  from  the  tomb  ! 
"  Lost  !  lost !  lost  !  "     It  speaks  of  its  doom  ! 
Why  should  I  thus  so  madly  question  thee  ! 
'T  was  ever  thus — is  now  !     Oh  !  will  it  ever  be  ? 

*  ^  *  *  *  * 

With  thought's  strange,  subtle,  mysterious  power. 
We  silently  enter  the  lone  gray  tower  ! 

[Glenore    Gonzails   and  Inez    Galvo   in  their 
favorite  room  in  the  tower. ^ 

Inez.— O    dear   Glenore  !      I    've    an    unpleasant 

dream 
To  tell  thee  of  thyself — though  it  may  be 
Distasteful,  I  trust  thou  wilt  overlook 
My  fault,  if  fault  it  be  in  me  to  tell  ! 
I  hope— O  fervently  I  hope  't  is  false  ! 
Thou  'It  not  chide  me  for  what  I  feel  through  love  ? 


1 66  The   Vendetta. 

GoNZAiLS. — A  dream  thou  'd  tell  ?     Of  course  a 

woful  one — 
About  my  being  slain,  or  plunged  into  th'  deep 
At  night  asleep  on  deck.     Were  it  not  thou 
I  would  not  hear  ;  proceed — tell  me  my  fate  ! 

Inez. — 'T  was  eve  !    I  wander'd  on  a  lonely  shore  ; 
As  oft  I  Ve  heard  its  voice,  the  sea  sobbed  low  ; 
Immerged  in  water  half,  with  wild  white  face, 
On  thy  back  reclining,  't  was  a  dreary  spot, 
Thy  locks  toss'd  by  the  wind,  alas  !  I  saw 
Thee  dead  !     O  God  !  my  heart,  in  misery  bled — 
A  melancholy  spirit  and  alone 
I  seem'd — wandering  in  the  breezes  by  the  sea. 

GoNZAiLS. — Thou,  e'er  solicitous  for  my  welfare. 
Hast  felt  dear  one,  th'  result  of  all  thy  fears 
In  slumbers — 't  was  an  incubus —       • 

Inez. — The  nightmare  ? 

Alas  !  no  !  dear  Glenore,  it  seem'd  not  to  be — 

I  fear  't  was  a  warning  and  a  prophecy  ! 

GoNZ  AILS. — Forget  this  dream,  for  it  can  only  sadden 
Our  lives  and  yield  no  good. 

Inez. — (With  an  affectionate  caress.) 
Thy  heart  I'  d  gladden  ! 
Content  thyself — I  '11  tune  my  good  guitar  ; 
Together  we  '11  sing  of  lone  Trafalgar — 


A  Tragic  Romantic  Poem.  167 

GoNZAiLS. — Thanks,  but  my  voice  has  grown  rough 

like  the  sea. 
Excuse  me  from  singing — please  sing  to  me 
The  song  you  love  best,  my  Pearl  of  the  Sea  ! 
With  a  voice  which  would  rival  Israfel's  own, 
Pathetic  and  grand  was  her  lay  and  her  tone. 
Whate'er  each  other's  pleasures  such  each  craves, 
Thus  Cupid  binds  his  not  unwilling  slaves. 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

The  days  were  many  to  those  on  the  isle, 
In  luxurious  ease  the  swift  hours  while. 
Earth's  pleasures  must  end,  as  end  must  its  pain, 
The  pirate's  heart  sighed  once  more  for  the  main, 
The  wine  was  consum'd,  the  brandy  was  gone, 
They  wish'd  a  fair  change  on  th'  wide  waters  wan  ; 
Ne'er  long  a  wanderer  finds  a  peaceful  home, 
Some  far  delusion  ever  whispers  :  "  Roam." 
The  love  of  Inez  was  deep  as  the  sea, 
And  fearing  to  part  with  her  idol,  she 
Oft  asked  to  go  with  Gonzails  when  he  cruised  : 
That  danger  to  her  the  outlaw  refused. 
She  tried  to  persuade  him  to  give  up  the  sea 
For  the  love  she  would  yield,  abundant  and  free, 
With  all  the  power  of  her  beautiful  charms. 
And  tried  the  force  of  her  dreams'  dire  alarms  ; 
When  all  else  failed  in  the  depths  of  her  fears, 
She  tried  woman's  last  strong  resource,  her  tears. 
Which  smote  her  lover  with  puissant  force. 
He  nigh  repented  in  his  soul  his  course  ; 
Reluctant  to  go  in  that  moment  of  bliss, 
While  sealing  his  love  in  that  lingering  kiss — 


1 68  The   Vendetta. 

Hark  !    hark  !    the    crack    of    gun    and    cannon's 

boom  ! 
And  on  the  shore  the  clouds  of  battle  loom  ! 
Glenore  Gonzails  hath  heard  that  sound  before. 
Loud   rolls    each  crash — the   thundering   peals  of 

war — 
The  guard's  quick  shout — the  vidette's  hoarse  wild 

cry — 
Tell  of  surprise,  and  tell  of  death  or  victory  ! 
Now  thick  and  fast  on  th'  chieftain's  restless  soul, 
Past  wars  in  all  their  ghastly  horrors  roll, 
As  gathering  clouds  beneath  the  moon  rush  o'er, 
Grim  phantoms  hast'ning  to  a  mighty  war, 
That  shriek  o'er  tempest  thunder  shouts  afar  ; 
With    shrieks   breathe   lightning   from    their    fiery 

throats, 
When  shakes  in  terror  each  lone  living  star — 
Till  over  all,  Death,  the  triumphant,  gloats. 

****** 

The  lovers  part  with  battle's  first  wild  knell  : 

"  Good-bye,  dear  Pearl  !  "  were  words  that  fondly 

fell 
To  her  sad  ears  who  kiss'd  and  dared  not  tell 
The  ominous  thought  embodied  in  adieu,  farewell. 
Now  sadly  this  Cytherean  Beauty  feels 
The  loss  which  Fear,  awaken'd  from  her,  steals. 
And,  one  by  one,  tears  mount  her  lovely  eyes — 
Wrench'd  from  her  heart — o'er  each  cheek  slowly 

trails. 
No  longer  she  her  lover's  form  descries. 
She  knows  th'  danger  that  awaits  Gonzails  ; 


A  Tragic  Romantic  Poem,  169 

For  ne'er  would  he  yield  the  battle  to  foes, 
Though  enemies  desp'rate  and  many  oppose. 

****** 
Gonzails  apace  dash'd  on  to  the  front 
Of  battle's  dread  ranks,  and  there  bore  its  brunt. 
Where  foemen  thick  and  most,  alive  and  dead. 
"  His  sable  plumage  nodded  o'er  his  head  " — 
Fiercely  he  cheered  his  comrades  on  to  fight — 
E'en  though  't  was  wrong,  he  thought  he  battled 

right. 
The  enemy  came  like  the  deadly  simoom, 
Twelve  Moslem  war  ships  the  pirates  to  doom, 
Mohammedan  warriors  sent  out  to  th'  field, 
To  conquer  a  foe  that  never  would  yield  ; 
For  scores  of  times  their  foes  had  vainly  striven 
To  take  the  isle  at  night,  morn,  noon,  and  even. 
Though  ne'er  before  surprised,  the  island  guard, 
Pick'd  men,  whose  prowess  to  o'ercome  was  hard, 
Saw  their  dark  foes,  a  squadron,  making  way, 
Over  th'  ramparts,  from  out  the  island  bay. 
Then  their  alarm  resounded  on  the  coasts — 
These  foes  had  risen  silently  as  ghosts  ; 
Strong  men,  these  Moors  that  scaled,  and  used  to 

war. 
And  ere  'neath  foes  they  fell  to  rise  no  more. 
Fought  like  fierce  fiends  upon  the  bloody  shore. 

**"**** 
With  cannon,  gun,  and  cimetar, 
And  other  implements  of  war, 
The  Moors  attempt  to  waken  fear 
In  th'  bosom  of  the  buccaneer — 


170  The   Vendetta. 

With  battering  rams  they  beat  the  side 

Of  wall  high  towering  o'er  the  tide, 

In  vain  to  dash  it  from  the  bank  : 

As  well  might  they  have  storm'd  Mont  Blanc. 

When  climbing  'gainst  the  pirate's  fire 

Of  missiles  of  destruction  dire, 

These  fearful  squadrons  ere  they  die, 

Oft  to  Allah  and  th'  Prophet  cry, 

To  help  them  scale  the  desperate  flights 

Of  frowning  ramparts'  towering  heights — 

But  soon  they  fall,  drench'd  in  their  gore, 

'Neath  death's  fierce  thunder-bolts  of  war  ; 

Hurl'd  like  snow-flakes  down  from  the  clouds, 

They  're  soon  enwrapped  in  watery  shrouds. 

On  deck,  on  land,  all  'round,  death's  pall  ! 

With  many  wounds  bold  warriors  fall, 

And  shrieks  the  wild  demoniac  blast 

Of  dread  war  madly  howling  past 

The  dead  and  dying  everywhere, 

Whose  blood  by  thirsty  sea,  earth,  air, 

Is  drunk  from  them  in  their  despair. 

Through  opening  of  the  fatal  wound. 

Souls  forth  emerge,  unseen  around. 

And  from  each  ghastly  corse,  death's  prey 

Its  fierce  wild  ghost  now  glides  away, 

Unwilling  toward  those  dismal  wolds, 

Where  swift  the  dark  Styx  ever  rolls. 

Ah  !  none  may  know,  when  Sleep's  twin-brother 

Death, 
Is  hovering  o'er  with  his  foul  poison'd  breath. 


A  Tragic  Romantic  Poem.  1 7 1 

Bravely  each  outlaw  battles  through  the  strife  ; 
He  fights  for  his  all,  his  home  and  his  life. 
Perforce,  the  chieftain  falls,  'midst  those  he  hates. 
Who  war  with  the  wrath  of  the  furies  and  the  fates. 
He  falls  to  the  ground  'neath  armor  and  shield, 
While  a  shout  goes  up  from  his  foes  on  the  field. 
A  wounded  lion,  he  renews  the  fight, 
And  looks  in  his  ire  like  the  storm  of  night. 
The  star  of  their  hope  in  darkness  doth  wane — 
His  path  on  the  field  is  heaped  with  their  slain. 
Though  valiant  the  Moors,  and  veterans  of  war, 
They  vanquished,  now  yield,  as  foes  oft  before. 
When  'midst  confusion  the  enemy  are  flying, 
The  chief  again  falls  'midst  dead  and  th'  dying. 
But  ere  Gonzails,  the  outlaw,  fell  once  more. 
His  sword  piled  high  the  Moslem  on  the  shore. 

Inez  from  the  tower  sees,  where  th'  smoke  has  parted, 

Her  lover  fall,  and  dies — aye  !  broken-hearted, 

Too  young  she  dies,  Count  Galvo's  peerless  child, 

A  hapless  waif  on  earth's  cold,  cruel  wild. 

In  life  all  that  is  beautiful  astray, 

She  yet,  in  death,  a  lovely  ruin  lay. 

Had  not  stern  fate  decreed  to  do  her  wrong, 

A  beauteous  light  above  the  lower  throng 

She  would  have  won  some  radiant  wondrous  goal, 

A  height  reached  not  save  by  the  noblest  soul. 

The  poor  would  e'er  have  blessed  her  with  their  love, 

As  some  sweet  angel  down  from  Heaven  above. 

Thus  does  the  dread  environment  of  fate 

Make  lives  of  beauty  lone  and  desolate. 


1/2  The   Veitdetta. 

E'en  now  in   name  of  truth,   fair  Astraea/    like  a 

star, 
Beholds  my  Muse's  flight  with  anxious  eyes  afar. 

****** 

Ye  who  have  felt  the  fierce  and  bitter  pain. 
When  death  bears  off  those  whom  ye  dearly  love — 
When  desolate  see  ye  a  dear  one  lain 
In  gloomy  shroud  entomb'd,  no  more  to  rove — 
Will  know  the  feelings  of  the  corsair  chief. 
Whose  heart  was  broken — buried  in  his  grief — 
At  sight  of  Inez  dying  ;  as  falls  the  sweet  spring 

flower. 
Killed  by  the  frosty  blast  that  breathes  in  its  lovely 

bower. 

****** 
Thou  Chastity  that  long  hath  held 
The  world  in  virtue's  modest  check, 
Man  owes  to  thee  in  heart,  joy-knell'd. 
For  th'  little  pure  saved  from  Vice's  wreck — 
Warm  thanks  to  surface  ever  gurgling  up, 
As  o'erflows  Nature's  sparkling  chaldron  cup. 

****** 

The  chief  is  sad  and  alone  in  the  tower, 
A  bleeding  stem  bereft  of  every  flower. 

[GoNZAiLs'  soliloquy  over  the  corse  of  Inez.] 

"  Till  now  in  this  world  I  have  wished  to  rove — 
Till  now  I  had  one  in  this  wide  waste  to  love, 
Whose  trusting  heart,  of  gentle,  sweet  desire, 
Kindled  my  soul  with  unquenchable  fire. 
'  Daughter  of  Justice. 


A  Tragic  Romantic  Poem.  173 

Alas  !  Love  's    gone — Life    from    Hate's  fountain 

drinks  ! 
Accurs'd  be  the  chain  which  e'er  to  Ate  links. 
The  great  and  damning  curse  on  earth  to  me, 
E'er  has  been  th&  Vinci  chain  of  Destiny — 
A  chain  that  's  slowly  rusted,  link  by  link, 
And  I,  the  last,  am  hovering  on  the  brink  ! 
Could  I  but  lie  in  death  by  that  dear  form, 
All  would  be  calm — no  more  of  this  life's  storm  ! 
One  hour  with  thee,  beloved  !  would  be  divine  ! 
Vanish'd  in  death  that  hour  will  ne'er  be  mine  !  " 
The  outlaw  gazed  on  his  dead  leman's  bier, 
While  sadly  flowed  from  his  eyes,  the  pent  tear. 
"  Far  through  the  shades  of  years — strife — havoc — 

war — 
Thou  hast  been  my  only  bright  and  tranquil  star." 
While  gazing  on  th'  corse  of  her  whom  he  loved. 
His  heart  and  his  soul's  best  impulses  moved  ; 
On  her  pallid  brow  he  now  placed  a  kiss — 
No  agony  ever  was  niore  keen  than  this. 
It  held  for  him  th'  last  Hybla  of  bliss  ! 
There  crept  through  his  soul,  a  dread — a  nameless 

fear — 
He  gave  to  the  dead — 't  was  all  he  could — a  tear. 
From  youngest  infancy — from  year  to  year — 
His  life  at  once  centred  in  that  scalding  tear. 
"  I  will  seek  again  th'  gloomy  haunted  dell — 
From  those  weird  ghosts  oft  mingling  wildly  there, 
By  that  power  resistless — the  Vendetta  spell — 
I  '11  rend  the  unseen  future  from  them  bare  ! 
While  she  lived  I  hoped  this  dark  life  to  outgrow — 


1/4  The   Vendetta. 

While  she  lived  I  loved,  but  now  all  is  woe  ! " 
As  one  whose  fond  wishes  gone  ever  unheard, 
At  length  dies  a  victim  to  hope  long  deferred. 
Tenderly  lifting  his  loved  one  so  dear, 
Gonzails  placed  her  in  her  tomb,  dark  and  drear. 
Where  nought  could  disturb  her  long  restful  sleep — 
From  haunts  of  living  things,  in  her  sacred  keep  ; 
Then  kissed  her  saying  :    '*  Thy  only   fault   was 

loving  me  ! 
Farewell  !  farewell  !  "    His  voice  died  out  in  agony. 


CANTO    THE    FIFTH. 

[Gonzails /;?  the  haunted  dell — Time^  near  7mdmght^ 

Gonzails. — By  that  which  binds   us  ! — By  Fate's 

deep  power  !     By  th'  Vendetta  vow  ! 
By  th'  conjuror's  spell  and  magic  power  !     By  all  ! 

I  now 
Call  ye  !  spirits  of  Vinci's  band  !  to  harken  unto 

me  ! 
E'en  though  afar,  come  from  th'  air,  th'  clouds,  and 

night  ! — come  from  th'  sea  ! — 
Come  from  th'  realms  Invisible  !  speak  and  harken 

ye!" 

[Sulphurous  odors  impregnate  the  air,  and  immedi- 
ately afterwards  several  puff s  of  flame  and  smoke  are 
seen,  accompanied  by  a  rumbling,  sullen  sound — Spir- 
its appear — Gonzails  shudders?!^ 

Spirits. — Short-sighted  mortal  !  what  wouldst  thou 
With  spirits  ?     Child  of  clay  ! 


A  Tragic  Romantic  Poem.  175 

We  've  come — we  dare  not  break  our  vow  ! 
What  wouldst  thou  with  us  say  ? 

GoNZAiLS. — I  'd  know  how  long  my  soul  must  bat- 
tle in  the  flesh — 

How  long  I  'm  to  be  linked  to  th'  accursed  Ven- 
detta vow  ? 

Impelling  me  on  through  dark  labyrinthian  mesh, 

When  shall  I  rest  fore'er  in  sleep  this  aching 
brow  ? 

Spirits. — What  meanest  thou,  rash  mortal  ? 

Think  not  to  cross  death's  portal, 

Whilst  thou  hast  such  great  cause  to  live  ! — 

In  thee  our  only  hopes  survive  ! 

Religion's  vow  told  us  on  Earth — 

Instill'd  in  us  from  very  birth — 

That  long  as  blood  of  foes  survived, 

Of  Heaven  we  would  be  yet  deprived  ! — 

We  know  the  changes  on  man's  sphere. 

But  we  have  found  no  knowledge  here 

Of  our  Vendetta  ;  nought  of  Heaven's  bliss, 

A  longing  for  it,  this  and  only  this — 

And  yet  we  feel  too  well  !  too  well  ! 

We  near  th'  dreadful  gulf  of  Hell  ! 

E'er  at  th'  solemn  hour  of  midnight  drear, 

Hell  yawns  and  shows  us  much  to  fear  ! 

Thou  !  only  thou  our  course  can  stay. 

And  to  high  Heaven  open  the  way  ! 

Alone  on  Earth  of  our  Vendetta  ! 

Beware  the  offspring  of  Roletta  ! 

For  five  of  his  cursed  blood  remain  ! 


176  The   Vendetta. 

List !  shouldst  thou  leave  Earth  ere  all  're  slain, 
We  all  are  lost  ! — a  broken  spell  ! — 
Eternally  we  '11  creep  through  Hell ! 

[Spirits  exeunt.'] 

GoNZAiLS. — Back  !  by  our  Vendetta  vow,  its  power, 

return  !  beware  ! 
Or   by  high  Heaven    this   knife    shall   blast   your 

hopes  fore'er  !  fore'er  ! 

[Holding  a  poniard  in  his  hand  high  over  his  heady 
ready  to  drive  it  to  his  heart.] 

[Spirits  reappear  a7td  rapidly  speak.] 

"  Hold  !  rash  mortal  !  wouldst  thou  prove  indeed 
A  fiend  !   what  ?  wouldst  thou  leave   us   here  ? — 

Proceed  ! 
Slay  thyself  and  thy  ov/n  woe  as  dread 
As  ours  will  be  !     If  number'd  with  the  dead 
E'er  all  our  foes,  we  're  lost  ! — Send  them  before, 
And  thou  and  we  are  blessed  forevermore  !  " 

GoNZAiLS. — Then  hasten  ye,  and  tell  me  all  I  wish 

ye  to  unfold  ! 
Why  thus  in  ignorance  leave  me  ?     Ye  have  not  as 

yet  told 
Where  one  of  these  ill-fated  five   are  by  me  to  be 

found  ! 
I  might  seek  in  vain  from  pole  to  pole  and  earth 

around  ! 
It  seems  to  me  I  've  slain  enough  to  satisfy 
Fierce  Death  himself,  and  yet  ye  say  five  more  must 

die  ! 


A  Tragic  Romantic  Poem.  177 

A  Spirit.— One  lives  in  Venice,  a  Venetian  count ; 
With  him  two  sisters — 

\A  pause.'] 

GoNZAiLS. — Which  do  three  amount — 

Spirit. — This  night  a  mother  dies,  a  child  's  born 

to  weep, 
'Neath  th'  arching  bow ' — not  that  of  upper  deep — 
But  where  'midst  vales  the  Alpine  torrents  creep. 
The  fifth  and  last  in  one  respect  's  like  thee  ; 
He  roams  the  wide,  deep  waters  of  the  sea — 
His  ship  's  a  licensed  merchantman,  and  he 
A  lawful  trader  of  fair  Italy. 
List  !  Our  Vendetta  heed  !  The  Vinci  vow  ! 
And  all  's  well  !  Our  sufferings  all  shalt  thou 
Escape  ;  and  thus  thou  'It  raise  us  out  of  woe ! 
Then  heed  !  heed,  mortal !  We  go  !  We  go  ! — 

GoNZAiLS. — Hold  !  hold  !  I  invoke  ye  !  I  command 
ye  !  I  adjure  ! 

Their  names  !    their  names  !    or  I  can  no  longer 
endure 

This  red  horror  of  blood— this  continuous  night- 
mare ! 

Reveal    e'er  night's  noon  wakens  th'  cries  of  de- 
spair ! 

Another  Spirit. — The  Royal  Venetian 

Is  the  Count  Orsini, 

His  sisters  patrician 

Husbands  wedded,  of  power  ; 

Their  husbands  too  soon  died — 

'  A  phenomenon  seen  among  the  Alps. 


178  The   Vendetta, 

Bloody  victims  of  our 

Vendetta  they  all  fell — 

The  twin  brothers  Bembo, 

In  the  wild  Bernese  dell. 

The  child  of  the  mother 

A  moment  since  adead, 

Hath  th'  surname,  mortal  brother, 

Strozzi,  whose  given  name 

To  tell  we  forward  press, 

By  mortals  it  's  unknown — 

'T  will  be  this  nothingness  : 

The  name  Agostino  ! 

Sforza  makes  th'  five — woe 

Should  the  five  outlive  thee  ! 

Mortal,  heed  !  heed  !  we  go  ! 

To  thy  mission  !  hence  !  hence  ! 

GoNZAiLS. — Hold  !     Unveil  the    dark  future  ?    O 

when  from  earth  shall  I  be  free  ? 
When  sail  I  from  th'  sea  of  Time  into  th'  ocean  of 

Eternity  ? 

All  the  Spirits. — We  '11  answer  not,  'though  ask'd 

by  thee  ! 
We  're  not  permitted  to  relate  ! 
Nor  Life  nor  Death  swerve  Heaven's  decree  ! — 
Knowledge  cannot  change  Fate  ! 

[Spirits  vanish  in  space.  Gonzails  gazes  at  va- 
cancy^ where  the  souls  of  the  departed  were  last  seen^ 
muttering ;] 

"  I  care  not  to  call  ye  back  from  your  hell  beyond 
the  tomb  ! 


A  Tragic  Romantic  Foevt.  179 

O  God  !  that  I  was  certain  of  some  less  fearful 
doom  !  " 
[  The  corsair  chief  slowly  leaves  the  dell,  and  with  no 
signs  of  the  bitterness  of  his  heart,  appears  before  his 
band,  who  welcome  with  the  cry  :  ''Long  live  our  brave 
captain,  Glenore  Gonzails  ! "] 

*  iV  *  *  *  * 

From  wounds,  which  ever  are  with  war  allied, 
Where  Life  and  Death,  austere,  are  side  by  side, 
On  Mars'  red  field,  where  ghouls  are  wont  to  roam, 
Rose  up,  save  those  who  'd  gone  to  their  long  home, 
Th'  pirate  band,  and  which  their  chief  praised  well ; 
Brave  had  it  fought,  and  bravely  many  fell ! 

*  ^  *  *  *  * 
Gonzails  and  his  outlaw  crew  slowly  now  embark  ; 
In  deepest  gloom  the  great  chief's  soul— no  night 

as  dark. 
The  Tiger  leaves  her  moorings,  swiftly  speeds  her 

flight. 
While   sweetly   smiles  afar  the   peerless  Queen  of 

Night, 
From  off  her  gorgeous  throne,  amid  the  spheres  so 

bright, 
Each   sphere   a  light-house  seems  that  pitying  an- 
gels light. 
While  shines  the  lamp  of  day  Gonzails  is  loth  to 

leave 
The    resting-place  of  her  his   heart  and   soul   do 

grieve. 
Ever  of  the  past  he  thinks,  ever  pensively. 
Ever  of  the  loved  and  lost,  this  mournful  reverie  : 


i8o  The   Vendetta. 

"  Ne'er  shall  I  return  to  gaze  on  this  lonely  shore, 
Nor  as  in  other  days,  wander  the  island  o'er, 
Doubtless  beneath  the  sea  where  Ruin  dwells,  alone. 
To   drown   and  perish  there,  unseen,  unwept,  un- 
known. 
My  love  hath  no  response,  Hope,  like  a  bird  hath 

flown — 
Vengeance,  I  live  for  thee,  and  live  for  thee  alone  ! 
When  thou  art  satisfied,  I  've  lived  my  wretched  life  ; 
That  hour  I  trust  is  nigh,  when  ends  my  days  of 

strife. 
O  better  far  the  evils  Death  may  hound  on  me. 
Than  this  most  woful  life  ! — Fate,  I  shall  trust  in 

thee  !  " 
And  now  upon  his  eyes  while   memory  seems  to 

mock. 
Dies  one  by  one  the  visage  of  each  dim  island  rock. 
****** 

Afar  upon  th'  main,  like  a  bird  that  is  free. 
Flies  th'  Tiger  proudly,  'neath  th'  blue  canopy. 
She  tosses  her  head  like  a  haughty  belle, 
As  onward  she  floats  o'er  the  ocean-swell — 
Over  ocean,  where  fiercely  the  wild  winds  sweep, 
Or  lull'd  in  silence  with  calm  waves  sleep. 
Behold  !  sinks  the  day-god  down  to  his  rest, 
And  o'er  the  wide  waters  smiles  out  of  the  west ! 
And  he  sheds  in  his  beam  a  weird  red  light. 
Till  veiled  into  slumber  by  shades  of  th'  night. 
'T  is  night  on  the  waters,  and  dark  as  the  doom 
That  waits  the  murd'rer,  though  gone  to  his  tomb  ! 
'T  is  night  !  moon  and  stars  are  hid  from  the  view 


A  Tragic  Romantic  Poem.  i8i 

Of  th'  children  of  earth,  of  th'  Tiger's  fierce  crew. 
How  silent  it  is  ! — there  's  a  flash  in  the  sky  ! — 
It  seems  the  red  glare  of  a  mad  wizard's  eye  ! 
Hark  !    loud   breaks    the    thunder  !    startling   the 

crash  ! 
Looms  far  and  anear  the  red  lightning's  flash  ! 
Now  rumbling  rolls  one  continuous  roar — 
From   Heaven's  wide    floodgates    the  high  waters 

pour. 
Now  here,  and  now  there,  amid  the  great  storm. 
The  Tiger  high  rears  and  dips  her  proud  form — 
Ah  !  will  she  fill  a  dark  and  sunless  grave  ? 
Or  toss  triumphant  o'er  the  howling  wave  ? 
Mad  lightnings  wildly  shooting  far  and  near, 
Cause  the  unseen  aerial  ones  to  fear. 
Well  may  they  fear — for  means  the  flash  and  roar. 
The  mightiest  elements  are  at  fiercest  war  ! 
The  angry  storms  fling  huge  destructive  shafts — 
In  deepest  scorn  each  warrior  hoarsely  laughs, 
And  martial'd  far  around  in  densest  crowds. 
Live  thunders  swiftly  leap  from  clouds  to  clouds, 
Hurling  their  deadly  massive  bolts  afar — 
Hitting  the  very  vault  of  distant  Heaven  ! 
Which  jars  each  high-hung  planet  star, 
And  shakes  the  earth  to  its  foundation,  even  ! — 
The  mighty  demons  of  the  deep  abyss, 
Rous'd  wondering,  trembling,  with  awe,  gazing  see, 
E'en  the  hosts  of  Heaven,  amidst  peace  and  bliss. 
Beholding  !  stand  amaz'd  in  Eternity  ! 

****** 
The  loud  chuckling  genii  that  revell'd  o'er  the  wave. 


1 82  The   Vendetta. 

A  kindred  spirit  met  in  th'  corsair  chieftain  brave  : 
Upon   the  Tiger's   prow,  which  well   the   waters 

walked, 
Gonzails  fearless  sat,  and  with  the  thunder  laughed 

and  talked. 
His  wild  and  stormy  soul  could  such  grand  scenes 

enjoy  ; 
His  nature  thus  inured  up  from  a  prattling  boy. 
While  others  trembled,  pale,  'midst  such  surround- 
ings drear, 
He  coolly  eyed  the  scene,  for  Fate  had  murdered 

Fear. 
For  years  in  safety  through  all   strife,  all  danger 

borne. 
And  fearless,  he  well  might  laugh  even   Death  to 

scorn. 
Of  real  joy  in  his  laugh  there  was  a  painful  dearth — 
Something  akin  to  madness  mingled  in  his  mirth — 
Disgust  of  life  and  every  thing  of  earth  apart, 
Since  now  but  misery's  breakers  broke  upon  his 

heart. 

****** 
In  the  distant  sky  vanish  the  skirts  of  Night  ! 
The    Morn    comes    forth  ! — her   lamp    is    glowing 

bright  ! 
Sweet  odors  borne  upon  the  passing  breeze, 
Waft  from  far  shores  of  fragrant  flowers  and  trees. 
Aroused  from  slumbers  sweet,  the  morning  star 
Shines  softly  bright  from  Heaven's  celestial  bar. 
As  though  his  holy  image  man  might  keep, 
Th'  Eternal  now  seems  mirrored  on  the  Deep  ! 


A  Tragic  Romantic  Poem.  183 

The  morning  brings  to  view  a  noble-looking  brig, 
Which  moves  th'  outlaw's  soul  as  wind  the  tender 

He    thinks  of    the  plunder  that  may  soon  be  his 

own — 
By  the  right  of  his  might,  and  his  victim's  death 

groan. 
Aboard  the   Tiger,  one,  though  sins  stain'd  soul 

and  brow. 
Had  ne'er  shed  blood  for  gold— an  outlaw  forced 

by  vow — 
Of  robbery  he  is  free,— it  never  him  could  tempt — 
Though  dyed  with  many  crimes,  Gonzails  of  that 's 

exempt. 
A  pirate  he  was  named  because  of  his  fierce  crew — 
With  the  guilty  th'  guiltless  must  ofttimes  suffer  too. 

A  year  since  last  the  Tiger  fled  her  island  home. 
Swiftly   the  Doge  of  Venice  o'er  the  deep  doth 

roam. 
The  bark  is  but  ten  leagues  off   India's  burning 

shore, 
The  stars  smile  on  the  deep  and  'lume  the  wide  sea 

o'er. 
Alone  upon  her  deck  a  man  stands  'neath  her  sails, 
One  glance  his  visage  reads  ;  't  is  the  corsair  chief, 

Gonzails  ! 
Unconscious  and  adrift,  he  had  one  day  before, 
Been  found,  pick'd  up,  a  waif  the  sea-waves  on- 
ward bore  : 
His  ship,  the  Tiger,  and  her  fierce,  desperate  crew, 


1 84  The   Vendetta. 

While  battle  roared  the  loudest,  with  foes  had  sunk 
from  view. 

Gonzails  alone  survived  when  death  alone  he  cher- 
ished, 

His  friends  and  foes  from  Time's  moorings  all  had 
perished. 

Like  a  storm-swept  leaf  he  was  hurled  from  off  the 
deck 

By  the  falling  mast  of  his  vessel's  sinking  wreck. 

Entangled  in  the  sails  that  parted  from  the  mast, 

At  Heaven's  tender  mercy,  he  floated  the  ocean 
vast. 

When  neither  Fate  nor  Vengeance  forced  him  with 
time  t'  strive, 

When  his  Vendetta  vow  's  fulfilled,  he  would  not 
longer  live. 

He  springs  far  o'er  the  bow,  he  strikes  upon  the 
wave. 

And  for  a  moment  floats  above  his  cheerless  grave. 

Adown  in  the  sea  he  sinks,  bubbling  not  a  groan. 

Restless  as  his  soul  the  waves  that  o'er  him  dirges 
moan. 

Far,  on  a  rock-bound  shore,  his  body  floats  to 
mould. 

As  that  dead  dreamer's  dream,  in  life  had  long  fore- 
told. 

In  this,  her  prophecy  fulfilled,  why  doubt  the  rest. 

Which  told  that  he  here  dead  by  her  presence  would 
be  bless'd  ? 

Then  who  '11  not  believe  in  the  soft  wind  whisper- 
ing by. 


A  Tragic  Romantic  Poem.  185 

O'er  him  the  angel  spirit  of  Inez  hover'd  nigh  ? 
From  that  far-distant  realm  beyond  the  fields  of  air, 
All  sinless  and  forgiven  by  Him  who  reigneth  there. 


THE  STAR  OF  THE  EAST. 

A    METRICAL     ROMANCE. 


187 


Argument. 

The  incidents  portrayed  in  this  poem  are  founded  on  well- 
authenticated  events  in  the  history  of  Circassia.  Centuries 
ago  the  two  wealthiest  and  most  powerful  princes  of  Circassia 
lived  near  the  Black  Sea.  The  elder  one,  Prince  Agra,  was  a 
widower,  having  but  one  living  child,  his  beautiful  daughter 
Zalumna,  who  was  dearer  to  her  father  than  all  other  posses- 
sions. The  other,  Prince  Bravello,  was  young  and  handsome, 
living  quite  alone,  if  we  except  his  retinue  of  servants,  he  be- 
ing the  only  remaining  one  living  of  his  family. 

Notwithstanding  that  these  two  princes  were  the  greatest 
by  far  of  all  the  petty  rulers,  and  that  their  principalities 
joined,  yet  they  lived  in  harmony  and  peace.  Why  should 
they  not,  when  Prince  Bravello  was  the  affianced  husband  of 
the  beautiful  Zalumna,  the  Star  of  the  East  ?  Her  beauty 
was  acknowledged  far  and  near.  This  rare  and  remarkable 
attraction,  however,  was  the  cause  of  great  trouble  to  its 
innocent  possessor. 

Circassia,  as  the  reader  is  aware,  has  long  been  subjected  to 
invasions  from  the  warlike  Russians  and  licentious  Turks. 

The  then  ruling  Sultan  of  Turkey  was  Kafar,  and  was  to 
Circassia  its  greatest  curse,  owing  to  the  many  raids  he  made 
In  that  section  of  the  country  for  spoils  and  new  inmates  for 
his  harem. 

Having  heard  of  the  great  beauty  of  the  renowned  Zalumna, 
he  determined  to  possess  her  at  all  hazards.  In  this  under- 
taking a  fierce  battle  ensued  between  the  forces  of  the  Turkish 
monarch  and  those  of  Prince  Agra,  in  which  the  former  was 
triumphant,  the  prince  slain,  and  his  daughter  stolen. 

Prince  Bravello  being  fond  of  the  chase,  passed  a  consider- 
able portion  of  his  time  in  this  manner.  At  the  time  of  the 
descent  of  the  Saracen  horde  on  the  Agra  castle  the  young 
prince  was  absent  on  one  of  these  hunting  expeditions.  Evil 
forebodings  of  some  unseen  danger  lurking  near  his  friends 
induced  him  to  leave  the  chase  for  the  home  of  those  dear  to 
him.  He  arrived  only  in  time  to  see  ihe  result  of  the  horrible 
deeds  committed  in  his  absence  by  the  bold  marauders.  He 
soon  discovered  who  the  principal  participant  in  this  dastardly 
outrage  was,  and  on  him  made  a  vow  to  avenge  the  wrongs  of 
his  friends. 

The  poem  reveals  how  that  vow  was  kept. 


i88 


THE   STAR   OF   THE    EAST. 


PART    FIRST. 


AS  young  lovers  in  their  new-born  bliss, 
Lo  !  day  and  night  each  other  fondly  kiss  !— 
Roseate  Diana  blushes  in  the  east  ! 
Sings   now   the  nightingale— all  other   birds  have 

ceased. 
In  their  high  homes  the  stars  their  vigils  keep, 
And  far  below  are  mirror'd  in  the  deep. 
Hark  !  from  yon  castle,  looming  o'er  the  trees. 
The  lute's  sweet  tones  are  borne  upon  the  breeze  ! 
Here  dwells  Kafar,  who  ruthless  rules  the  Turks— 
The  Sultan  King,  and  evil  are  his  works  ! 
In  dread,  as  all  should  dread  degrading  sin. 
His  subjects  all  his  favor  work  to  win. 

"  My  harem  fails  to  interest, 

Its  inmates  now  to  me  are  old  ; 
My  harem  soon  I  will  divest  ; 

These  women  must  and  shall  be  sold  ! 
Circassia  I  will  soon  invade — 
.     I  '11  sweep  her  soil  by  land  and  sea. 
And  make  this  swift  and  bold  crusade 

One  of  sweet  satisfaction  be  ! 


IQO  The  Star  of  the  East. 

The  creatures  in  my  harem  now 

Have  justly  served  their  time  and  me — 

I  '11  cast  them  out  for  those,  I  trow, 
More  beautiful  and  fair  to  see  !  " 

Thus  spoke  the  monarch  of  the  Turks,  and  swore 

By  Mohammed,  the  prophet  of  his  lore, 

That  thus  it  soon  should  be  ;  and  then  apace, 

A  fiendish  smile  broke  o'er  his  savage  face. 

He   strode   through   rooms  and  halls  of  gorgeous 

make  ; 
'Midst  many  luxuries  lived  this  kingly  rake — 
With  finest  carpets  from  rich  Persian  looms 
Were  velvet  ottomans  in  satin  rooms. 
Here  sparkled  jewels  of  pure  ray  serene, 
To  world  unknown,  by  all  unseen  : 
Pearls,  diamonds,  amethysts,  rubies,  and  gold, 
Great  wealth  had  this  king,  unseen  and  untold. 

PART    SECOND. 

T_TARD  by  the   Black   Sea's  weird  and  sombre 

waters 
Lives  one  of  earth's  fairest  and  loveliest  daughters, 
With  her  sire — a  prince — and  to  his  soul  as  dear 
As  Heaven's  forgiving  voice  unto  the  Peri's  ear 
Is  his  beloved  child — who  bright,  a  Hebe  looks — 
As  fair  as  Venus — as  nymph  of  ocean  nooks  ; 
So  peerlessly  perfect  that  even  she  seems 
The  belle  of  the  angels  haunting  our  dreams  ! — 
Caring  for  the  needy  all  over  the  world, 


A  Metrical  Romance.  191 

Her  personal  beauty  her  spirit  impearl'd  ! 
And  she,  the  sweet  spirit,  the  beauteous  and  good, 
Lov'd  her  dear  sire  from  child  to  womanhood. 
The  theme  of  her  beauty  had  so  far  increased, 
That  she  was  by  all  named  "  The  Star  of  the  East." 
This  beautiful,  lovely,  and  peerless  young  girl, 
With  conscience  as  pure  as  an  unsullied  pearl ; 
With  health,  and  with  every  thing  riches  can  buy — 
Yet  mourn'd  she  that  which  the  world  can't  supply  : 
A  mother  beloved — a  saint  now  above. 
Ah  !  what  can  compare  with  a  fond  mother's  love  ? 
They  dwelt  near  the  lovely,  sweet  village  of  Kale  ; 
They  liv'd  all  alone  in  a  sweet  winning  vale. 
Where  wild  flowers  grew  and  beautiful  trees  ; 
Where  wafted  the  breezes  from  three  rolling  seas.* 
Zalumna's  soft  glances  and  lustrous  dark  eye, 
Hinted  the  secret  revealed  by  the  sigh 
That  heav'd    the    pure   bosom    of    Agra's   sweet 

daughter  : 
One  other  she  lov'd — ah  !  Cupid  had  taught  her  ! 


She  loved  to  rove  the  forest  wild — 
The  loveliest  flower  that  nature  smil'd — 
There  seek  and  find  in  silent  dells 
Lilies,  roses,  and  pimpernels, 
Till  weary  in  this  happy  lot ; 
Then  pause  on  some  enchanting  spot, 
In  some  sweet  grove  of  chaparral. 
To  sit  and  weave  a  coronal, 

'  Mediterranean,  Black,  and  Caspian  seas. 


192  The  Star  of  the  East. 

To  carry  to  her  secret  bower, 

Where  oft  she  whiled  away  the  hour. 

There  rested,  ramble  home  returning. 

From  Nature's  tome  its  mystery  learning — 

List'ning  to  wild  birds'  silvery  song. 

Now  soaring  as  she  moves  along  ; 

While  flits  the  bat  in  winding  course, 

And  sounds  the  owl's  voice,  deep  and  hoarse, 

From  silent,  dense,  and  gloomy  woods — 

A  solemn  world  in  its  solitudes. 

Out  from  the  wolds  she  roams  the  plain, 

Spreading  onward  to  the  main  ; 

And  breathes  the  aromatic  breath 

Of  spring,  that  blooms  from  winter's  death. 

And  oft  in  "silence  now  doth  brood, 

Whilst  straying  where'er  points  her  mood. 

O'er  her  brave  lover.  Prince  Bravello, 

Who,  by  sunlight,  or  moon's  pale  yellow, 

Far  over  rugged  mountain  goes, 

Through  vales  of  lily,  vales  of  rose. 

And  other  fragrance-breathing  flowers, 

All  heedless  of  the  passing  hours  ; 

On  track  of  fleeing  buck  and  doe. 

Escaping  from  their  dreaded  foe. 

From  covert  starting  timid  hare. 

And  savage  beast  from  thicket  lair. 

Zalumna  thought  with  childlike  glee, 

A  thought  endeared  to  memory. 

Of  a  near,  new,  and  blushing  morn, 

When  life  for  her  would  change — be  born — 

Which  Heaven's  divinest  laws  allow— 


A  Metrical  Romance,  193 

The  life  assured  by  marriage  vow  ; 

A  sphere  of  life  both  sweet  and  true, 

And  pure,  thought  she,  as  mountain  dew  ; 

As  crystal  liquid  of  the  fount. 

Which  doth  on  high,  in  beauty,  mount 

To  Heaven's  dreamy  sapphire  scope — 

Her  vision  bright,  full  bright  her  hope. 

PART    THIRD. 

"  I  "HE  day  orb  sinking  in  the  west, 

^       Seems  like  a  golden  realm  of  rest, 
Till  light  takes  wings  and  flies  away  ; 
Then  Darkness  comes  on  earth  to  prey, 
Save  where  the  bright-eyed  sprites,  on  high, 
Reveal  close  objects  to  the  eye. 
Scarce  one  lone  hour,  down  in  the  west, 
Had  red-robed  Sol  gone  to  his  rest. 
When  sounds  of  cant'ring,  prancing  steeds, 
Afar  but  clear,  o'er  wolds  and  meads, 
Awake  the  stillness  of  the  hour. 
The  steeds  draw  nearer,  onward  scour, 
Until  they  halt  beside  the  tower. 
When  men's  fierce  voices  on  the  air. 
Reach  ears  of  Agra's  daughter  fair, 
While  resting  'neath  the  arbor  vines, 
AVhere  each  long  shoot  in  labyrinth  winds. 
She  hears  the  sounds  first  in  a  dream 
And  fancies  some  wild  panther's  scream. 
Then,  wakening  to  a  conscious  state. 
She  sees  dark  forms  come  through  the  gate  ; 


194  The  Star  of  the  East. 

The  sight  of  troopers'  glittering  spears 

Awakens  all  her  sleeping  fears. 

Of  this,  her  dear  sire  to  apprise, 

She  swiftly  to  the  castle  hies, 

But  vain  her  mission  now  at  most ; 

Through  doors  and  elsewhere  through  a  host 

Intrude,  and  in  their  bearings  show 

They  are  a  bold  and  savage  foe. 

Prince  Agra  hearing  foes  draw  nigh, 

Well  knew  some  bold  and  treacherous  spy 

Had  foiled  the  warders  at  their  posts, 

And  oped  the  gates  to  foreign  hosts. 

*'  Arm  !  arm  !  "  he  cries  ;  '"'  our  foes  are  near  ! 

Rouse  ye  !  my  warriors  !  "     They  appear, 

With  javelin,  sword,  and  axe,  and  spear. 

"  Charge  !  charge  !  or,  gods,  't  will  be  too  late  ! 

Fight  !  fight  !  and  yield  to  naught  but  fate  !  " 

The  battle  fiercely  now  began — 

Each  foeman  fought — each  man  to  man. 

Steel  shone  in  light  of  chandelier, 

And  dim  the  forms  that  battled  here — 

Still  dimmer  those  in  outer  dark. 

Where  targets  foemen  faintly  mark. 

Then  what  th'  Circassians'  woe  or  weal, 

As  loud  there  dwelt  one  constant  peal 

Of  cries  for  mercy — or  oaths  scream'd, 

And  frantic  yells — one  sound  it  seem'd, 

The  sounds  that  rent  the  air  within — 

A  fierce  uninterrupted  din — 

Commingled  with  the  sounds  without. 

Where  roar'd  War's  messengers  about. 


A  Metrical  Romance,  195 

Like  howling  storm  when  raging  best, 

Like  cries  of  spirits  seeking  rest, 

Through  darkness  shrieking,  "lost  !  lost  !  lost  !  " 

Which  floats  at  midnight  o'er  the  frost  ; 

And  like  ere  dawns  the  morning  gray, 

Wild  hosts  of  midnight  fiends  at  bay, 

Arose  and  echoed  one  loud  roar 

From  turret  to  foundation  floor  ; 

A  sound  that  seemed  to  reach  the  sky 

And  mingle  with  the  clouds  on  high, 

That  rushed  o'er  sea,  o'er  wild  moorland, 

Whilst  ebb'd  with  blood  life's  shifting  sand. 

As  foemen  fell  'midst  blood  and  dust. 

From  nerveless  hands  fell  swords  to  rust  ; 

While  Moslem  and  Circassian  bled, 

Peacefully  slept  the  fallen  dead. 

Unconscious  of  the  angry  strife 

That  robbed  each  warrior  of  his  life. 

Yet  'mid  the  corses  of  the  slain 

The  living  fought  the  field  to  gain. 

****** 
The  battle  now  began  to  wane, 
As  thunder  after  storm  and  rain — 
The  clansmen  dead  on  every  side. 
Their  blood  in  streams  one  ebbing  tide, — 
Circassia's  army,  but  tenth  size 
Of  foes  they  fought  became  their  prize. 
The  prince  was  pinioned  in  a  chair. 
And  then  they  sought  his  daughter  fair  : 
Beneath  the  turret's  roof  concealed, 
Her  hiding-place  the  search  revealed. 


196  The  Star  of  the  East, 

In  fright  she  saw  their  cause  forsaken, 

And  next  by  Saracens  she  's  taken 

Before  their  savage  barb'rous  chief, 

Who  well  had  won  the  name  of  thief. 

The  sight  of  one  with  charms  so  rare, 

Soon  caused  the  Turks  to  rudely  stare. 

Their  monarch  stopp'd  it  with  a  glance, 

And  toward  Zalumna  did  advance. 

Thus  saying  :     "  Thou  !  Circassian  maid. 

Alone  art  worth  my  Northern  raid. 

And  I  will  vouch,  no  doubts  retain, 

Thou  art  the  gem  of  this  domain." 

Insulting  words,  so  thought  the  sire, 

And  wildly  woke  his  slumbering  ire. 

Without  a  token's  faint  alarm, 

He  deftly  loos'd  each  fettered  arm, 

And  sword  unscabbar'd,  with  a  spring 

Swift  as  the  bolts  the  mad  gods  fling, 

To  avenge  in  blood  the  insult  made. 

In  th'  monarch's  side  plunged  his  bright  blade. 

This  madden'd  thrust,  to  shield  his  child. 

By  foes  undreampt,  was  rash,  was  wild. 

For  ere  he  had  breathed  another  breath. 

He  lay  in  silent  ghastly  death  ! 

Thus  fell  proud  Agra's  prince  to  Moslem  hate. 

And  wither'd — all  must — to  the  blast  of  Fate  ! 

With  anguish  cry,  which  spoke  her  wild  despair, 

Zalumna  fainted,  and  her  raven  hair. 

In  flowing  tresses  veiled  her  ashen  brow — 

Unconscious,  she  knows  no  misery  now. 

As  though  in  fear  of  hidden  danger  nigh, 


A  Metrical  Romance,  197 

With  captive  maids  and  captive  warriors  by, 
And  wounded  king,  the  fierce  and  brutal  Turk, 
Swift  from  the  scene,  where  ghosts  of  dead  men 

lurk, 
Departed  through  the  dark  and  gloomy  wold, 
While  yet  Night  in  her  glitt'ring  dress  of  gold. 
Walked  forth  in  all  her  pensive  loveliness, 
Grieving  for  man's  sins,  his  misery,  and  distress. 

PART    FOURTH. 

"l  "\  rHERE  zephyrs  stray,  where  breezes  sleep, 
^  ^      Where  fountains  play,  where  cascades  leap, 
Bravello  braved  the  chase  afar, 
While  nothing  seemed  his  life  to  mar. 
A  life  of  dreams  and  visions  dear, 
Pass'd  with  a  being  of  beauty  near  ; 
Whose  heart  o'erflowed  for  him  with  love, 
A  heart  as  pure  as  saints  above. 
When  wandering  he  paused  from  tire. 
Or,  passing  beauty  to  admire. 
The  lone,  wild  spots  beneath  his  views — 
Romantic  scenes  invoked  the  muse. 
His  verse  did  oft  discourse  in  story, 
Gf  haunted  ruins,  wild  and  hoary, 
Combin'd  with  Cupid's  beauteous  bowers, 
G'ergrown  with  fair  and  fragrant  flowers. 
He  wrote — the  famous  nine  inspired — 
Who  read,  by  ardent  love  was  fired, 
Translated  to  a  realm  of  bliss, 
Undimm'd  by  shades  that  darkle  this. 


198  The  Star  of  the  East. 

One  moon  he  pass'd  where  roamed  the  deer — 

Until  arose  a  growing  fear, 

Which  grew  until  it  woke  to  steal 

All  thoughts  save  those  that  sorrow  feel. 

Why  did  he  feel  this  sudden  fear  ? 

He  asked  himself,  in  accents  drear  : 

Could  aught,  had  aught,  of  harm  befell 

Her,  whom  he  fondly  loved  so  well  ? 

She  whom  he  loved  with  such  devotion 

That  e'en  all  wealth  of  land  and  ocean 

Could  purchase  not  one  single  hair 

That  round  her  sweet  self  floated  there. 

Bravello  !  image  of  Apollo, 

Did  swiftly  flight  of  Cupid  follow — 

And  onward  hasten'd,  till  he  rode 

Beside  his  loved  one's  gray  abode. 

He  met  not  now  one  to  retard, 

Or  one  to  challenge — a  trusty  guard. 

Now,  swiftly  he  ran  through  the  gate's  widened  wall, 

O  horror  of  horrors  !    most  dreadful  of  all  ! 

The  simoon  of  death  had  swept  dark  o'er  the  land. 

The  proof  of  its  visit  everywhere  lay  at  hand — 

The  ground  was  now  strewn  with  men  still  and 

stark. 
And  ghastly  each  face  !  no  life-telling  spark. 
Here  lay  a  pale  rider  and  there  lay  a  steed, 
In  silence,  in  blood,  'neath  the  tall  waving  reed  ; 
Circassian  and  Turk,  who  warred  in  life's  pride. 
Now,  peacefully  lay,  in  death,  side  by  side. 
Bravello  awoke  from  the  trance  he  was  in  ; 
He  sought  for  his  love,  he  sought  for  her  kin. 


A  Metrical  Romance.  199 

No  sweet  reward  met  his  eyes'  longing  strain— 
For  those  whom  he  sought,  he  sought  for  in  vain  ! 
Not  on  th'  domain  was  the  breath  of  a  sound, 
Wolves  in  the  distance  broke  the  stillness  profound  ! 
Lo  !  Turks  on  the  ground  and  down  in  th'  moat  ! 
His  woe  had  been  wrought  by  the  Sultan  cut-throat ! 
Behold  !  while  cold  starts  the  sweat  from  each  pore, 
On  his  back  Prince  Agra  welter'd  in  gore, 
Silent  in  death,  with  a  gash  deep  and  wide, 
Lay  the  father  of  her  he  loved  as  his  bride. 
O'er  his  dead  friend  he  loudly  and  silently  wept, 
Ere  he  entombed  him  where  his  ancestors  slept. 
The  mystery  is  cleared  !    no  deception  lurks  now : 
From  quiv'ring  pale  lips,  through  his  teeth  a  fierce 

vow 
He  hissed  like  the  snake  that  hisses  at  bay  ; 
It  wafted  on  breeze,  o'er  dead,  and  away 
Did  float  'neath  the  veil  of  the  vine  arcades, 
And  grew  in  the  gloom  of  the  silent  shades. 
Which  wakened  the  souls  of  the  listening  trees, 
That  now  far  around  sighed  their  deep  sympathies. 
Vengeance  looks  from  his  eyes  :  Ah  !  new  th'  light 

now. 
The  clammy  cold  sweat  on  his  pale  classic  brow, 
Remain'd  and  settled  where  first  it  oozed  forth. 
He  wildly  gazed  round,  south,  east,  west,  and  north: 
But  little  he  linger'd— no  time  was  there  lost — 
Next  boldly  he  plung'd,  through  the  night,  and  the 

frost. 


200  The  Star  of  the  East. 


PART    FIFTH. 

'T^HE  night  was  departing,  and  coming  the  morn, 
When  loudly  a  blast,  from  the  shrill  bugle- 
horn, 
Full  many  awake  afar  and  anear, 
Creating  a  panic  of  frenzy  and  fear. 
In  the  bosom  of  all ;  who  looked  for  the  sword 
Of  the  minions  of  Turkey's  tyrannical  lord. 
'T  was  Prince  Bravello  who,'midst  silence,  profound. 
Had  wakened  the  slumberers  by  the  bugle's  sound. 
The  poor  and  needy  of  the  village  of  Kale, 
Now  knowing  the  cause,  in  deep  sorrows  bewail. 
Widows  and  orphans  all  over  the  land. 
Owed  many  a  comfort  to  Zalumna's  fair  hand, 
And  many  owed  safety  from  the  roving  brigand 
To  her  good  brave  father  and  his  trusty  band. 
As  soon  as  his  countrymen  knew  the  desire 
That  raged  in  the  breast  of  Bravello  like  fire. 
To  wreak  swiftest  vengeance  upon  the  foul  foe. 
They  eagerly  ciied  :  "  We  are  ready  to  go 
To  th'  ends  of  the  earth  !  south,  north,  east,  and 

west  ! 
And  will  willingly  start  when  thou  dost  request  !  " 
****** 

Sol,   suddenly   'rous'd,   peer'd   from  th'   east,   and 

espied 
Ten  thousand  horsemen,  that  swiftly  now  ride 
Toward  land  of  the  Turks — a  nation  of  foes, 
That  e'er  had  created  the  deepest  of  woes. 


A  Metrical  Romance.  2oi 

Ah  !  dark  were  the  brows  and  fierce  were  the  eyes 
Of   each  of   that   band — "  Revenge  !  "  their   loud 

cries. 
O'er    many    wild    moors — through    dark    shaded 

wood — 
O'er  streams — and  past  ruins,  which  ages  had  stood 
Deserted  by  man  ;  though  owls  held  their  posts, 
With  goblins  and  ghouls  and  uneasy  ghosts. 
By  light  of  the  sun  from  the  first  peep  of  day, 
At  night  by  the  stars  and  the  moon's  misty  ray, 
Swiftly  onward  they  ride,  toward  their  foul  foes  afar, 
Each  avenger  dashed  on — each  bold,  fierce  hussar. 

****** 
The   king   of   the    Turks    sits   at   home — the    day 

wanes — 
He  heeds  not  the  twilight,  his  wounds,  or  his  pains. 
In  soft  mellow  lights  that  illume  like  the  dawn, 
His  eyes  now  one  hundred  fair  captives  feast  on — 
Georgia's  brunettes  and  Circassia's  fair  blondes, 
And  almond-eyed  houris  from  Orient  dawns. 
But  hark  !    what  's  that  sound,  that,  strange  rum- 
bling sound, 
That  seems  like  a  storm  in  the  night  air  around  ? 
And  why  are  those  cries  so  savage  the  while, 
Bursting  now  forth  from  the  mountain  defile  ? 
And  why  do  the  guards  give  back  from  their  posts, 
Shrieking  :    "  Allah  !    our   foes,    they  're   here  in 

great  hosts  !  " 
But  hark  !  the  sound  !  't  is  the  clashing  of  steel, 
Far  thundering  on,  one  roaring,  loud  peal  ! 
The  Sultan  now  look'd  in  the  Stygian  air. 


202  TJie  Star  of  the  East. 

Met  two  rolling  eyeballs — a  slave's  frenzied  stare. 
The  doors  of  the  harem  now  trembled  and  creaked  ; 
'T  was  air  of  the  halls,  that  swiftly  in  leaked 
From  the    outer  dark  air,   where  war-storm  loud 

dinn'd  : 
With  crash  fell  a  door  !  through  th'  house  a  cold 

wind 
Moan'd   low  and  whistled  with    a   sad,    mournful 

sound. 
The  fair  are  bewildered,  the  king  darkly  frown'd. 
And  wildly  he  cried  to  his  minions  without  : 
"  What  ho  !  there,  slaves — what  's  all  this  about  ? 
This  clash,  and  this  din  of  tumult,  and  strife  ! 
Some  dark,  drunken  broil  I  '11  wager  my  life  !  " 
A  score  or  more  slaves  appeared  on  the  spot — 
Their  features  were  wild,  perspiring,  and  hot. 
They  looked  at  their  king  with  a  cowering  stare, 
Who  yelled  in  their  ears  with  an  angry  glare  : 
"  Why  stand  here  speechless  like  Death   o'er  his 

spoil  ? 
What  means  your  leader  that  he   stops    not   this 

broil 
Of  harlots  a-drunk  and  wine-bibbing  slaves, 
Of  thieving  scoundrels,  and  dishonest  knaves  ? 
They  all  shall  swing  on  the  scaffold  at  morn. 
For    breaking    my   peace    by   this    racket,    I    've 

sworn  !  " 
"  My  noble  king,  the  foe  invades  !  — 
'T  is  deep  in  blood  each  warrior  wades  !  " 
One  loudly  now  shrieked  in  the  ears  of  the  king. 
Like  shrieks  of  a  fiend  or  a  phantom  on  wing, 


A  Metrical  Romance.  203 

When  lost  in  the  night,  some  wanderer  roams, 
Through  the  drear  sombre  wolds,  where  the  cata- 
ract foams 
And  roars  from  th*  mountain,  when  on  rolls  the 

storm, — 
When  lightning's  flash  shows  a  tall  spectre-form, 
Walking  pensive  alone  in  the  deep  solitudes. 
Seen  ghastly  'midst  trees  of  th'  dark,  dreary  woods  ! 
The  Sultan  frowned  darkly  and  gnash'd  his  teeth- 
He  looked  as  an  ogre  from  orgies  beneath. 
"  Great  Allah  !  "  he  cried,   "  this  tale  seems  un- 
couth— 
Ho,  ho  !    to  th'  ramparts  !— I   '11  soon  know  the 
'  truth  !  " 


"H 


PART    SIXTH. 

ALT  !  "  and  they  halt  in  the  land  of  their 
foes, 

In  th'  land  of  th'  hated,  who  wrought  all  their  woes; 
In  sight  of  the  palace  o'ershadowed  with  trees. 
Where  the  Sultan  reposed  in  the  soft  lap  of  ease. 
When  the  night  veiled  in  shadows  the  land  and  the 

waves. 
Into  squadrons  Bravello  divided  his  braves, 
And  posted  them  round  the  high  castle  walls. 
Ready  to  charge  when  their  brave  leader  calls — 
To  fight  in  the  cause  of  Circassia's  dark  woes, 
The  ruin  brought  on  her  by  villainous  foes — 
Deeds  dire  and  damning,  which  caused  many  tears  : 
Th'  theft  of  maidens,  death  of  kindred  and  seers. 


204.  The  Star  of  the  East. 

Hark  !    "  Charge  on  the  ramparts  !  "  falls  fiercely, 

yet  low  ; 
They  charge  !  through  the  gates  the  battering-rams 

go. 
The  Turks  first  repel,  then  flinch  and  fall  back  ; 
Then  like  fierce  tigers  leap  to  the  attack — 
To  fight  and  to  falter  before  the  onslaught 
Of  foes  who  alone  for  their  loved  ones  fought. 
The  battle  is  fierce,  for  many  do  war  ; 
Bold  warriors  fall  low  in  death  by  the  score. 
In  front  of  the  battle  throughout  the  whole  strife, 
The  blade  of  Bravello  drank  oftentimes  life. 
His  warriors  fought  bravely  and  well  their  ground 

stood, 
Their  foes  fell  around  them  like  leaves  of  the  wood, 
While  th'  eyes   of  th'  death-god   glow'd   ominous 

light. 
And  th'  ebon  war-eagle  scream'd  dread  through  the 

night  ! 
Feeling  they  fought  for  a  cause  that  was  just, 
In  the  god  of  battle  all  placing  their  trust. 
The  invaders  conquered  in  the  short  waged  war. 
Though  by  foes  they  're  outnumbered  by  many  a 

score — 
O'er  the  red  field  of  Mars  triumphant  they  bear. 
Ere  fair  Morn  had  loosened  her  bright  golden  hair. 

****** 
No  longer  the  sounds  of  dread  battle  roll  ; 
From  stark,  stiffen'd  corses,  each  storm-toss'd  soul 
Hath  winged  its  swift  flight  'mid  battle's  loud  roar 
To  the  dim  land  of  shadows^^^the  echoless  shore. 


A  Metrical  Romance.  205 

In  the  zenith  above  are  myriads  of  stars, 
And  sadly  they  glow  o'er  the  red  field  of  Mars. 
The  war-horse  lies  dead,  and  dead  the  dragoon. 
And  infantry  warriors  by  score  and  platoon  : 
All  ghastly  and  grim  'neath  the  soft  mellow  moon. 
Each  spirit  afar  from  the  drear,  dreadful  sight, 
On  ethereal  wings  took  its  swift  wayward  flight ; 
But,   when   all  and  each  shall  be   called  to  their 

doom, 
When  the  blast  of  the  trumpet  shall  peal  through 

the  gloom, 
These,  with  the  many,  whose  sins  are  concealed, 
Will  stand  all  unveiled,  all  secrets  reveal'd, 
By   the    great    recording  angel,  the  scribe  of  the 

Light  ! 
Who  knows  every  deed  of  the  day  and  the  night. 
With  those  that  now  fell   Turkey's  monarch  was 

slain. 
And   't  was  brave   Prince  Bravello's   good  sword 

bore  th*  stain  ; 
The  vow  was  fulfill'd,  which  th'  dead  heard  him 

tell— 
Prince  Agra  avenged,  fully,  speedy,  and  well. 
From  out  of  the  harem  Bravello  released 
Many  beauties  ;  the  fairest,  "  The  Star  of  the  East." 
When  the  bugle-call  told  each  warrior  to  mount. 
Soon  lost  on  their  ears  was  the  musical  fount, 
Where  the  Sultan  'neath  turban,  from  eyes  of  clear 

jet, 
Oft  gazed  at  the  tall,  towering  mosque  mmaret — 
At  beautiful  houris,  that  gracefully  move. 


2o6  TJie  Star  of  the  East. 

Through  the  sweet  minuet,  a  dance  that  they  love, 
When  the  low,  dulcet  tones  of  the  soft,  sweet  guitar, 
By  fair  captives  played,  oft  wafted  afar. 
The  prince  leads  his  clan,  which  Zalumna  endears, 
And  the  laugh  of  their  friends  rippled  sweet  on  her 

ears. 
And  now  from  Circassia,  no  more  shall  they  roam. 
Nor  warriors  nor  maid — all  are  happy  at  home. 
And  ne'er  braver  knight  fairer  captive  released, 
Than  the  Knight  of  Circassia — the  Star  of  the  East. 


THE  RHYME  OF  THE  BORDER  WAR. 

AN    HISTORICAL    EPIC     POEM    OF    THE     KANSAS- 
MISSOURI    GUERRILLA    WAR    BEFORE    AND 
DURING    THE    GREAT    REBELLION. 

THE    PRINCIPAL    CHARACTER    BEING 

The   Famous   Guerrilla,  William   Clark   Quantrell. 


207 


TO 

MY  WIFE. 


God  secretes  in  places  lone  and  still 
The  rarest  products  of  His  will, 
For  contact  with  the  world  disarms 
His  fairest  flowers  of  half  their  charms. 


209 


CONTENTS. 


CANTO  I. 
Introductory — War — Kansas — Parting  Scene       .     213 

CANTO  II. 

Hildebrand-Banquet  —  Quantrell's  Early   Home 

IN  Ohio 224 

CANTO  III. 

Lulu  Earl— The  Storm— Quantrell  at  the  Home 

OF  the  Earls 228 

CANTO  IV. 

The  Camp  of  Jennison — Jennison  and  Quantrell — 
Death  of  Quantrell's  Friends — Quantrell's 
Soliloquy  and  Vow  of  Vengeance  in  the  Vale 


of  Avadore 


234 


CANTO    V. 


Quantrell  and  His  Men— The  Harris  Home— 
Jennison — The  Battle  —  John  McKeene  and 
Annie  Harris,  i.  e.,  Sister  Celeste    .        .        .     240 

CANTO    VI. 

Younger— Wild  Bill— The  Battle— Quantrell     .     257 

211 


212  Contents. 

CANTO    VII. 

Younger  and  His  Men  after  the  Battle  with 

Wild  Bill  and  His  Rangers       .        .        .        .262 

CANTO    VIII. 

Quantrell  in  the  Sni  Hills— His  Sad  Reflections 

— Quantrell  to  the  Rescue— The  Battle       .     265 

CANTO  IX. 

Thomas  Ewing's  Camp— The  Poet,  Claude  Lor- 
raine—  The  Poet's  Adventure  and  Ethel 
Colder  ........     270 

CANTO  X. 
The  Battle  of  Westport — Conclusion    .        .        .     298 


THE  RHYME  OF  THE  BORDER  WAR' 


CANTO  I. 

INTRODUCTORY. 

■pULL  many  builders  in  our  time — 
^      Some  riches  build,  in  doubtful  ways  : 
I  build  the  fair  and  lofty  rhyme, 
Of  deeds  heroic  sing  the  praise. 
^  "  The  more  unpoetic  a  century  appears,  the  more  pressing 
are  its  needs  for  poetry  drawn  from  fresh,  contemporary,  and 
immediate  sources.     ...     An  age  like  our  own,  thronged 
with  such  varied  activities,  throbbing  with  such  manifold  en- 
ergies, struggling  so  fiercely  towards  the  light,  can  never  be 
regarded  as  hopelessly  prosaic.     Poetry  is  not  dead  because  it 
sleeps  ;  it  is  '  immortal  as  the  heart  of  man,'  if  poets  depend 
on  themselves,  and  not  on  external  circumstances.    In  variety 
and  depth  of  meaning,  the  nineteenth  century  will  not,  surely, 
disappoint  those  who  have  the  discernment  to  extricate,  and 
the  ability  to  exhibit,  the  treasures  it  supplies.    The  eagle  eye 
will  yet  detect  the  ideal  beneath  and  within  the  actual  world  ; 
the  seer  will  always  read  the  permanent  truths  enshrined  in 
common  incidents  ;  at  the  touch  of  the  magician  the  apparent 
confusion  ceases  ;  like  sun-gleams  that  turn  the  dew-drops  into 
diamonds,  master-minds  will  never  cease  to  reveal  beauties 
that  lie  at  our  very  feet — but  lie  there  unobserved.    He  whose 
mind  is. burnished  by  contact  with  the  world  most  fully  col- 
lects into  a  single  focus  all  the  interacting  rays  of  the  light 
around  him  ;   he  who  bends  his  ear  most  patiently  to    the 
'  loud-roaring  loom  of  time  '  will  best  extract  a  harmony  from 
its  seeming  discords." — Edinburgh  Review. 
213 


214         The  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War, 

Though  now  I  touch  the  breathing  lyre, 

To  sing  past  war,  if  of  those  days 
Should  other  harps  than  mine  aspire, 

It  boots  not  who  best  wears  the  bays- 
So  that  the  poem  hath  expressed 
The  music  of  the  poet's  breast 
With  feeling  that  to  time  imparts 
A  light  of  pathos  melting  hearts — 
That  mystic  power  of  poesy, 
Defineless  as  the  Deity. 
I  sing  as  now  my  whim  suits  best, 
And  leave  to  time  and  man  the  rest. 
I  sing  of  war — red  cruel  war. 

The  desp'rate  deeds  of  desp'rate  men- 
Of  war,  whose  echoes  yet  afar 

Low  thunder  over  hill  and  glen. 
***** 

Behold  !  excited  cities  stir  ! 

See  the  deserted  shop  and  field  ! 
What  in  man's  history  doth  occur  ? 

To  what  doth  fruitful  toil  now  yield  ? 
His  iron  front  grim-visaged  War 

Doth  bold  display  with  wrath  unmeet 
Lo  !  yonder  !     Mars'  fierce,  lurid  star. 

And  Battle  stamps  his  bloody  feet  ! 
Oh  !  to  what  ominous  shadows  dark 

Time's  finger  points  prophetically  ! 

I  hear  the  widow's  wail  and,  hark  ! 

The  nursing  babe's  cry  comes  to  me  ! 
****** 

Kansas  !  land  of  many  a  change  ! 
Land  of  wealth  !  of  fairest  things  ! 


An  Historical  Epic  Poem.  215 

Where  war  and  carnage  oft  did  range, 

Now  Peace  and  Beauty  spread  their  wings. 
Thy  verdant  plains,  thy  waving  turf, 

All  teeming  with  unnumbered  men, 
Were  trackless  as  the  ocean  surf. 

And  monarch  was  the  Red  Man  then. 
But  Pike,  the  pilgrim,  came  at  last, 

Soon  followed  by  explorers  bold. 
Dissatisfied  with  all  the  past. 

Who  sought  for  happiness  and  gold. 
Then  the  bowie  and  revolver  ruled. 
And  men  alone  in  these  were  schooled. 
Here  the  Border  Ruffian  came — 

Here  the  early  pioneer 
Found  the  Missourians  would  defame 

With  slavery  the  whole  frontier. 
And  Atchison  '  here  came  as  they, 
The  President  for  but  one  day. 
At  old  Lecompton,  which  now  lies 
In  mouldering  ruins  'neath  the  skies, 
'T  was  Judge  Lecompte  who  first  essayed 

To  hold  a  court  upon  thy  soil  ; 
And  though  he  coaxed,  and  swore,  and  prayed, 

Thy  land  was  shamed  by  many  a  broil. 
*T  was  here  John  Brown,  the  fanatic,  made 

A  name  which  many  yet  admire  ; 

^  David  R.  Atchison  was  made  President  pro  tern,  of  the 
United  States  Senate  on  the  death  of  Vice-President  King. 
On  Saturday,  March  3,  1849,  President  Polk's  term  expired. 
President  Taylor  was  not  inaugurated  until  Monday,  March 
5,  1849.  So  that  David  R.  Atchison  was  President  of  the 
United  States  for  just  one  day,  Sunday,  March  4,  1849. 


2i6         The  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War, 

He  looked  for  sunshine — all  was  shade, 

His  faith  in  fools  his  funeral  pyre. 
And  there  was  "  method  in  his  madness," 

And  madness  in  his  method  wild  ; 
He  sowed — the  Negro  reaped  in  gladness, 

The  harvest  of  this  frenzied  child. 
Here  brilliant  Lane  his  powers  displayed 

In  oratory  capped  with  fire  ; 
Triumphant  in  his  might  he  swayed 

The  crowds  that  listen  and  admire. 
Here  bold  Montgomery  led  his  men 
Like  Roderick  Dhu  through  Scotia's  glen. 
Brave  Leonhardt,'  a  waif  of  time, 
A  good  man  in  the  days  of  crime. 
Under  Kossuth  a  hero  fought 
Ere  he  our  western  borders  sought ; 
In  Kansas  used  to  hardships  rare, 
Three  ears  of  corn  his  daily  fare. 
Shared  with  his  horse  ;  this  scanty  store 
Supporting  life  and  nothing  more. 
Pilgrim  and  genius,  Ingalls'^  came 
Among  the  first — here  built  his  fame. 
And  sons  afar  ^  the  war  notes  hear, 

1  Gen.  C.  F.  W.  Leonhardt. 

2  The  distinguished  statesman,  John  J.  Ingalls,  President 
of  the  U.  S.  Senate. 

^  Gov.  Robinson,  Gov.  Shannon,  Gov.  Reeder,  G.  W. 
Brown,  Editor  of  the  Herald  of  Freedom  ;  Richard  Realf, 
the  poet ;  Gov.  G.  W.  Glick,  U.  S.  Senator  P.  B.  Plumb, 
Col.  W.  A.  Phillips,  Gen.  Geo.  W.  Deitzler,  Hon.  Lyman 
Allen,  Col.  S.  N.  Wood,  Major  F.  G.  Adams,  Secre- 
tary   of   the    Kansas    Historical   Society  ;    Gov.   Thomas  A. 


A  n  Historical  Epic  Poem,  2 1 7 

And  like  the  Spartan  braves  appear — 
From  their  dark  guns  swift  vengeance  hies, 
While  wider  spreads  dear  freedom's  skies, 

Osborn,  Hon.  James  Redpath,  Hon.  John  Speer,  Col.  Sam- 
uel Walker,  Hon.  James  M.  Winchell,  President  of  the  Wy- 
andotte Convention,  1859  ;  Hon.  Samuel  A.  Stinson,  Hon. 
Eli  Thayer,  Hon.  Thaddeus  Hyatt,  Gov.  John  A.  Martin, 
Edwin  Coppoc  and  John  E.  Cook  (these  two  men  were  exe- 
cuted at  Harper's  Ferry,  December,  1859,  ^^  accomplices  of 
John  Brown  in  his  attempt  to  liberate  the  Southern  slaves), 
Major  H.  H.  Williams,  Col.  C.  K.  Holliday,  Major  H.  J. 
Adams,  Hon.  Archibald  L.  Williams,  Gov.  Geo.  W.  Smith, 
Gaius  Jenkins,  Judge  Samuel  A.  Kingman,  Judge  L.  D. 
Bailey,  Gen.  Thomas  Ewing,  Judge  Wm.  C.  McDowell, 
Judge  Jacob  Safford,  Judge  Nelson  Cobb,  Hon,  E.  G.  Ross, 
Governor  of  New  Mexico  ;  Judge  O.  E.  Learnard,  Judge 
Robert  Crozier,  Hon.  M.  F.  Conway,  Col.  R.  J.  Hinton,  Gen. 
A.  L.  Lee,  Hons.  T.  D.  and  S.  O.  Thacher,  Gov.  T.  Carney, 
J,  H.  Kagi,  Major  James  B.  Abbott,  Hon.  B.  F.  Simpson, 
Gen.  James  G.  Blunt,  Hon.  M.  J.  Parrott,  Hon.  Isaac  Sharp, 
E.  P.  Harris,  Hon.  F.  W.  Giles,  Gov.  John  W.  Geary,  Gov. 
Robert  J.  Walker,  Gov.  Samuel  J.  Crawford,  Hon.  Sidney 
Clarke,  Col.  Geo.  W.  Veale,  Col.  John  Ritchie,  D.  W.  Wilder, 
Ross  Burns,  Dr.  A.  J.  Huntoon,  Hon.  Jacob  Smith,  Hon. 
W.  P.  Douthitt,  Hon.  A.  H.  Case,  Hon.  David  Brockway, 
Hon.  P.  I.  Bonebrake,  Col.  D.  R.  Anthony,  Enoch  Chase, 
W.  W.  Climenson,  Gen.  Thomas  Moonlight,  Hon.  J.  C. 
Hebbard,  Major  J.  K.  Hudson,  Editor  Daily  Capital ; 
and  others  who  figured  more  or  less  in  the  history  of  Kansas. 
Many  self-sacrificing  wives  and  mothers,  youths  and  little 
children,  came  to  suffer,  and,  in  some  instances,  to  perish 
from  hardships — true  martyrs  to  the  march  of  civilization 
westward. 


2i8        The  Rhyme  of  the  Border   War, 

Here  journalism  '  first  betrayed 

The  hope  the  law  would  be  obeyed. 

Then  thy  first  bard,  Realf '  did  essay 

The  Muse — his  poems  seem  like  day 

Amid  that  one  dark  night  of  time, 

When  all  was  vengeance,  hate,  and  crime. 

Though  distant,  Whittier  with  his  song, 

Helped  Freedom's  mighty  march  along. 

All  through  thy  Border-Ruffian  days 

I  find  more  to  condemn  than  praise — 

When  Territory  and  when  State 

First  dawned — a  happy  thing  of  fate — 

When  lucky  Reeder  saw  death  near, 

When  Shannon  ruled  the  hour  in  fear — 

One  for  his  life  compelled  to  fly. 

One  to  resign  compelled,  or  die  ; 

While  Robinson  and  other  men 

That  Kansas  served  as  rulers  then, 

Got  little  to  repay  the  trust 

Save  hope,  which  oft  deludes,  and  must. 

Thank  God  !  't  is  passed — the  wagon  wheel 

Gives  place  to  iron  trail  and  steel. 

Here  Rogers,^  and  like  soldiers,  brave, 

Find  rest  without  and  in  the  grave — 

Now  through  with  war  and  carnage  all—" 

Hang  their  tried  swords  upon  the  wall. 

And  here  as  elsewhere,  as  a  rule, 

The  wise  man  jostles  with  the  fool. 

1  Free  State,  Speers  Tribune,  Squatter  Sovereign,  Leaven- 
worth Herald,  Herald  of  Freedom,  Kickapoo  Pioneer. 

=  Richard  Realf. 

3  Gen.  Geo.  Clarke  Rogers. 


An  Historical  Epic  Poem.  219 

Thy  poesy  soars  on  sublime — 
Here  grovels  the  pretender's  rhyme. 
O  Kansas  !  thou  hast  wonders  seen, 

While  Territory  and  a  State  ! 
Thou  art,  like  mortal  man,  I  ween, 

A  creature  led  by  tyrant  fate  ! 
Here  white  man  drove  the  red  man  back, 
To  be  supplanted  by  the  black  ; 
Though  now  and  then  a  moment  seen, 

The  strange  wild  Indian  of  the  plain, 
His  star  is  setting  low  between 

The  Rocky  Mountains  and  the  main. 
His  fate  and  the  buffalo's  are  one — 
They  gather  to  the  setting  sun. 


The  maiden  Morn  walks  with  the  Hours  ; 
Their  tread  has  wakened  all  the  flowers 
That  now  are  smiling  sweet  and  fair, 
And  whispering  unto  God  in  prayer — 
Bright  birds  of  beauty  welkin  wing, 
And  matin-hymns  to  Heaven  sing  ; 
The  east  with  omnipotent  power. 
Burns  with  the  breath  of  God  this  hour  ! 
That  mystery  of  life — O  strange  bequeath  !- 
That  hems  man  in  from  birth  till  death. 
And  aught  he  knows  e'en  further  still, 
Broods  in  the  vale  and  on  the  hill  ! 
A  cottage  sweetly  veiled  in  vine 
Of  ivy,  myrtle,  and  woodbine, 
Stands  fair  with  portal  open  wide. 
Where  two  stand  talking,  side  by  side — 


220  Tlie  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War. 

A  lovely  woman,  sweet  and  young, 

A  man  who  looks  from  greatness  sprung, — 

Stand  with  a  something  in  their  eyes, 

Which  tells  that  gloomy  darkness  lies 

Deep  in  their  hearts  :  "  O  husband  dear, 

I  tremble  with  my  aching  fear  !  " 

Her  pure  frank  eyes  were  bent  on  his — 

Sweet  sunbeams  in  a  sea  of  dawn — 
When  by  his  side  all  hours  were  bliss. 

When  parted,  life  'mid  clouds  dragg'd  on — 
"  Oh  !  have  no  fear  !— hope,  hope  !  "  he  said  ; 
"  Hope  that  we  meet  ere  moon  hath  fled  ! " 
"  The  spring-flower  blooming  sweet  and  dear, 
Is  hope  without  one  sorrow  near, 
But  when  't  is  smote  by  chilling  frost, 
*T  is  blasted  hope  forever  lost  !  " 
She  quickly,  earnestly  replies, 
With  anxious  looks  and  plaintive  sighs. 
*'  The  Union  I  must  help  restore  ! — 
'T  is  hard  to  leave  thee  for  the  war  ! 
My  country  calls  and  go  I  must ! 
The  duty  's  hard,  but  it  is  just  ! 
And  Kansas,  our  own  home  and  State, 
Is  threatened  with  Guerrilla  hate  !  " 
He  said,  and  kissed  her  rose  lips  dewed  with  wine- 

The  wine  of  love  and  beauty  sweet — 
She  looked  so  fair  she  seem'd  divine — 

An  angel  strayed  from  near  God's  feet. 
He  long  caressed  her  with  a  sigh. 
Said  :  "  God  bless  you,  darling  wife,  good-bye  !  " 
Then  vaulting  on  his  steed,  once  more 


A  n  Historical  Epic  Poem.  22 1 

He  scaled  the  tufted  prairies  o'er. 

A  solitude  of  flowers  rare, 

Blushed  sweetly  in  the  valley  fair  ; 

But  not  so  sweet  as  Ida  Vane, 

The  bride  whose  brightest  hopes  did  wane. 

As  innocent  she  seemed  to  be. 

There  blushing  'mid  the  woodland  bowers, 
As  fair  young  children  playfully 

Strewing  early  spring-time  flowers. 
Too  fair,  too  young,  this  one-week  bride, 
To  tread  alone  life's  path  untried. 
As  rests  the  dawn  upon  the  lake. 

She  rested  on  the  arm  of  God — 
She  knew  He  ne'er  would  her  forsake 

Nor  him  who  'midst  war's  dangers  trod — 
Far  oif  in  war's  dread  battles  wild, 

Where  Death  exulted  in  his  power  ; 
She  had  a  woman's  love,  a  child 

In  years — but  fourteen  times  spring's  flower 
Had  bloom'd  since  first  she  breathed  the  air 
Of  earth's  sad  sorrow  and  despair. 
"  Dear  God  !    from  thy  high  home  above 
Bend  low  and  hear  me.  Father,  please  ! 
Dear  God,"  she  cried,  "  preserve  my  Love, 
In  war  where  death  lives  in  the  breeze  ! 
Father,  I  pray  thee,  guard  mine  own 
Dear  Willie  while  away  from  me — 
Please  bring  him  back  ere  flowers  now  blown  • 

Have  faded  to  Eternity  ! 
Dear  God,  protect  my  Life,  my  Love, 
I  ask  of  thee,  whose  mercy  sees  ; 


222  The  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War. 

Dear  God,  from  thy  high  home  above, 

Bend  low  and  hear  me.  Father,  please  !  " 
Thus  prayed  this  fair  wife,  innocent 

And  young — too  young  for  such  great  cares  ; 
And  yet,  'midst  all  the  worst,  low  bent, 

God  hears  and  heeds  such  earnest  prayers. 
A  bay-flower  glowed  in  beauty  fair 
From  out  the  midnight  of  her  hair  ; 
The  wine  of  beauty  in  her  face, 

Within  her  eye  the  wine  of  love — 
The  wine  of  all  we  love  to  trace 

In  woman — virtues  from  above —    ' 
Was  hers,  the  lovely  Ida  Vane's, 

One  week  ago  fair  Ida  Bell, 
But  William  Vane  her  heart  obtains — 

The  fairest  girl  in  all  the  dell  : 
Her  bosom  glowed  with  love  as  bright 
As  light  of  stars  a  cloudless  night  ; 
And  like  those  sweet  immortal  flowers, 

True  woman's  love  grows  on  sublime — 
Like  them  it  soars  o'er  mortal  hours — 

It  lives  beyond  the  bounds  of  time  ! 
Unto  the  young  wife,  through  her  fear 
So  heavy,  sorrowing,  sickening  near, 
All  nature  lost  enchantment  here. 
Lo  !  see  yon  placid  lake  so  clear  ! 

W^here  lilies  with  their  satin  stars 
Wave  sweetly  in  the  breezes  here. 

With  snowy  beauty,  nothing  mars  . 
Near  by  the  gold-eyed  kingcup  glows, 
With  purple  clover  and  red  rose, 


An  Historical  Epic  Poem.  223 

Where  flower-cradled,  golden  bees, 
Sway  to  and  fro  unto  the  breeze  ; 
With  arrowy  sweep  a  river  glides 

'Twixt  hills,  then  flows  on  dreamily. 
Where  beauteous  fish  flash  sparkling  sides, 
While  sporting  in  the  waters  free. 
The  vales  where  doth  God's  grace  appear, 
The  sylvan  wilds — hills,  forests  here. 
Invite  the  wanderer  to  draw  near  ; 
Sounds  of  mysterious  beauty  breathe 

Adown  the  lonely,  lovely  vale  ! 
'T  would  seem  that  unseen  angels  wreathe 

A  crown  of  glory  in  the  dale, 
For  some  good  being  of  this  world, 
And  whisper  of  the  boon  impearled  ! 
Here  countless  fragrant  flame-like  flowers 
In  beauty  bloom  'round  wildwood  bowers  ; 
Here  birds  of  beauty  breast  the  breeze, 
And  hide  amid  the  leafy  trees. 
And  sing  a  lovely  madrigal, 
While  each  dear  little  heart  is  full. 
The  music  of  sweet,  hidden  hours. 
The  poesy  of  fairest  flowers, 

Were  here — sweet  breathing  through  the  bowers  ; 
Too,  the  Silences  their  Sabbath  keep, 
Far,  far  within  the  forest  deep. 
As  blushing  to  her  bridal  bed. 

The  young  bride  walks  in  beauty  fair, 
With  modest  fears  that  she  is  wed, 

Yet  joyous,  for  her  heart  is  there — 
Glides  day's  lingering  sweet  twilight 
Into  the  chamber  of  the  night. 


224        The  Rhyme  of  the  Border   War. 


CANTO    II. 

QUANTRELL's  ^    EARLY    HOME. 

"  I  "HE  mansion  of  the  Hildebrand 
-*■       The  fairest  of  Ohio's  land, 
Is  glowing  freely  in  the  night — 
Pendent  a  thousand  brilliants  bright  ! 
Out  moon  and  stars — in  peerless  light 
To  help  make  glad  the  festive  night — 
Bright  banners  float  upon  the  walls, 
And  happy  faces  throng  the  halls, 
And  sparkling  wines  flow  free  as  water  ; 
And  every  neighboring  son  and  daughter 
Adds  to  the  mirth  that  ripples  here, 
Where  silence  reigned  for  many  a  year. 
The  tables  in  the  banquet-hall 
Are  spread,  and  dancers  to  the  call 
Are  lightly  tripping  to  the  notes 
Of  music  as  it  onward  floats — 
All  is  wild  wassail  and  good  cheer  ; 
They  quaff  the  wine  and  foaming  beer, 

^  The  correct  name  of  the  great  guerrilla,  known  on  the 
border  as  William  Clark  Quantrell,  was  William  Clark 
Quantrill, — the  last  syllable  of  his  name  being  spelt  with  an 
i  instead  of  an  e. 


An  Historical  Epic  Poem,  225 

Long  years  agone  Hugh  Hildebrand 

Had  left  his  home  and  natal  land, 

To  spend  the  wealth  at  his  command  : 

Foul  envy  whispered,  young  and  old, 

Abroad  he  'd  been  an  outlaw  bold. 

In  foreign  lands,  in  years  since  fled 

And  vanished  with  the  other  dead. 

But  where  he  'd  been,  what  done,  how  well, 

It  boots  not  to  this  rhyme  to  tell  ; 

Suffice  he  'd  kept  his  promise  given 

Unto  a  sister  saint  in  Heaven  : 

That  he  'd  return  from  foreign  joys 

To  watch  and  guard  her  orphan  boys '  ; 

Suffice  he  homeward  joyous  came 

His  lovely  cousin's  hand  to  claim — 

The  beauteous,  radiant  Rosalie, 

Sweet  as  the  scent  of  summer  sea, 

As  gentle  as  the  rays  of  love 

That  light  alcoves  of  Heaven  above  ; 

In  all  so  sweet,  so  good,  so  fair, 

She  seems  of  neither  earth  nor  air. 

But  something  far  too  good  to  be, 

Aught  save  those  stainless  saints  we  'd  see 

Could  we  but  roam  that  world  so  high, 

Beyond  the  borders  of  the  sky. 

She,  this  earth-sprite,  's  happy  now. 

With  rosy  cheek  and  snowy  brow  ; 

Oh,  sHe  enjoys  her  hours  of  glee. 

For  happy,  blithe,  and  joyed  is  she, 

^  One  of  these  boys  was  William  Clark  Quantrill,  who  in 
manhood  became  the  famous  guerrilla  chief. 


226         The  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War. 

As  poet  singing  unto  those 

Living  in  a  world  of  prose — 

Beholds  the  magic  of  his  powers 

In  weeds  transformed  to  fairest  flowers  ! 

'T  is  the  fair  maiden's  wedding  night, 

And  each  and  every  winsome  wight 

Is  blithe  and  gay,  and  full  of  cheer — 

Feels  that  both  life  and  love  are  dear. 

Each  aged  servant  shares  the  bliss, 

The  master's  joys  are  hers  and  his  ; 

With  ardor  as  in  Eastern  land. 

Both  Rosalie  and  Hildebrand 

Loved  with  love's  mysterious  power — 

As  odors  of  the  fragrant  flower 

Attract  us  till  their  petals  blow 

In  close  communion  with  us  :  know 

Ye  that  the  flower's  perfume  is  love 

Lost  from  the  heart's  o'erfilled  alcove  ! 

The  past  seemed  living  as  of  yore, 

When  Hildebrand,  the  elder,  bore 

The  name  of  being  free  from  care, 

Supremely  happy,  debonair — 

He  masked  his  heart  from  them,  I  'd  swear. 

With  all  the  wealth  that  mortals  crave, 

And  generous  to  a  fault,  he  gave 

And  squandered  like  a  prince  of  old — 

His  heart  too  warm  to  e'er  grow  cold. 

Night  in  and  out  his  halls  he  'd  fill 

With  friends  from  every  vale  and  hill, 

Till  every  garnished  hall  would  be 

Resounding  to  the  revelry. 


An  Historical  Epic  Poem.  227 

Thus  lived  he  his  wild  life  away, 

In  dissipation  mad  and  gay, 

Till  death  low  laid  him  in  his  tomb, 

And  silence  did  his  mansion  gloom. 

And  bats  and  spiders  lined  the  walls. 

And  phantoms  walked  his  silent  halls. 

Night  waxed  and  waned,  and  Morning  fair, 

A  maid  of  beauty,  loosed  her  hair 

Ere  all  the  guests  had  left  the  scene, 

Where  dance  and  song  and  wine,  I  ween, 

Were  plenty.     Thus  and  thus  again, 

Like  his  mad  sire,  the  son  insane, 

Pursued  this  wild,  destructive  course. 

Which  had  its  end  in  time  perforce. 

His  Rosalie,  a  flower  too  frail 

For  earth,  now  bloomed  in  Heaven's  sweet  vale. 

He  hung  a  wreath  of  love  and  flowers 

Over  her  grave  so  sad  and  lone — 

For  her  he  wept  ;  the  happy  hours 

Beyond  the  silent  stars  had  flown. 


228        The  Rhyme  of  the  Border   War. 


CANTO  III. 

LULU     EARL. 

T    O  !  yonder  is  the  sylph  of  morn — 

A  maiden  young,  and  wondrous  fair  ; 
'T  is  Lulu  Earl,  whose  charms  adorn 

And  breathe  a  glory  everywhere — 
An  unkissed  maiden,  at  the  mere, 

Whose  knowledge  of  earth's  sin  confessed 
Is  nothing — for  her  soul  is  clear 

As  infant  on  its  mother's  breast. 
The  radiant  angels  breathe  her  name, 
In  Heaven  they  feel  her  spirit's  flame  ; 
Her  lily  rounded  arms  so  fair, 
Her  form  of  tempting  beauty  rare. 
And  face  might  bring  this  fair  one  harm — 
For  many  are  less  good  than  warm. 
Far,  far  within  the  hidden  vale, 

Where  dwells  the  peasant  poor  and  good, 
There  is  on  earth  no  nobler  tale 
Than  her  life  and  those  in  that  wild  wood. 
Here  Lulu's  presence  inly  gave 
A  peace  as  when  calm  waters  lave — 
A  happiness  we  know  in  dreams, 
The  poet's  ideal  maid  she  seems. 
Who  makes  bright  even  dark  despair — 


An  Historical  Epic  Poem.  229 

O  God  !  thou  knowest  she  was  fair  ! 

In  her  sweet  home — a  forest  bower — 

She  blushed,  the  wildwood's  loveliest  flower. 

God  secretes  in  places  lone  and  still 

The  rarest  products  of  His  will  ; 

For  contact  with  the  world  disarms 

His  fairest  flowers  of  half  their  charms. 

^  *  *  -at  *  * 

A  storm  howls  like  a  fiend  in  pain ; 
In  swaying  fury  falls  the  rain  ; 
Around  spreads  out  the  forest  black  ; 
Above  extends  the  roaring  wrack — 
And  oft  deep  voices  muttering  call, 
As  through  Plutonian  darkness  fall 
The  voices  of  the  damn'd  and  lost, 
Whose  crimes  the  love  of  God  hath  cost  ! 
Who  wander  boundless  depths  of  Hell, 
Plunged  in  vast  wastes  of  darkness  fell. 

The  hills  unloosed  their  shadows  vast. 

Which  wander  down  the  angry  blast. 

A  sound — as  when  God's  voice  doth  sweep 

Through  space's  vast  and  awful  deep 

In  mighty  peal,  whose  great  voice  awes 

The  powers  He  bids  obey  His  laws  ; 

Now  thunders  bellow,  loud  and  far — 

By  Peri  heard  on  outmost  star  ; 

All  objects  by  the  storm  are  hurled 

As  though  an  earthquake  shakes  the  world. 

Through  swaying  trees,  o'er  sweet-crushed  thyme, 

Upon  a  steed  as  black  as  crime, 


230         The  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War. 

A  horseman  lone  pursues  his  way, 

All  hoping  that  some  shelter  may 

Be  found — and  lo  !  the  lightning's  glare 

Shows  him  a  cottage  closed  with  care. 

"  Thank  God  !  "  he  said,  '*  Heaven  must  be  near, 

Though  Hell  's  abroad,  it  would  appear, 

For  demons  of  most  fearful  fright 

Seem'd  galloping  around  this  night, 

Until  this  cottage,  fair  and  bright. 

Seems  to  have  banished  ghouls  of  night." 

"  Had  I  a  shelter  for  my  head, 

Methinks  I  would  not  ask  a  bed." 

The  lightning  danced  before  his  eyes, 

And  seemed  to  picture  Paradise  ! 

As,  drunken  with  a  heavenly  wine, 

He  fancied  things  that  seemed  divine  ! 

A  form  of  flame, — a  spirit  form, — 

Goes  flashing  through  the  rolling  storm. 

Calls  to  him  from  a  cloud  of  fire. 

Then  fades  in  the  empyrean  higher  ! 

"  Methinks  a  fever  racks  my  brain  ; 

Perchance  I  'm  mad  or  half  insane  ! 

For  on  this  stormy  night  abroad, 

I  've  seen  an  angel  sent  by  God  !  " 

Lo  !  yonder  comes  the  gray-eyed  Dawn, 

And  shadows  dark  float  to  the  woods — 
The  genii  of  the  storm  have  gone, 

And  sought  the  deepest  solitudes. 
A-weary,  hungry,  wet  all  o'er. 

The  storm-benighted  traveller  drew 


An  Historical  Epic  Poem.  231 

His  rems  before  the  cottage  door, 

And  loudly  cried  :  "  Halloo  !  halloo  !  " 

He  hears  door-bolts  fly  back,  and  now 

Sees  a  fine  face  and  massive  brow 

Protrude.     "  Good  sir,  I  shelter  seek  ; 

The  storm  last  night  has  left  me  weak, 

And  hungry  too."     "  Dismount  ;  we  '11  share 

The  best  we  have  of  rustic  fare." 

The  stranger  to  a  couch  now  drew. 

And  Sleep  her  mantle  o'er  him  threw. 

His  steed  was  resting  'neath  a  shed, 

And  by  the  children  loved  and  fed. 

The  day-god,  in  his  golden  car. 

Had  driven  down  the  skies  full  far. 

When  he,  the  stranger-guest,  arose, 

Donned  his  late  wet,  now  fire-dried,  clothes. 

And,  looking  from  his  window,  starts 

At  sight  of  one  who  deftly  parts 

The  vines  of  honeysuckles  sweet, 

As  on  she  glides  on  fairy  feet. 

A  fair  enchantress  sweet  she  seemed. 

So  those  that  saw  when  waked  still  dreamed — 

For  where  she  stepped,  unto  the  view. 

Sprang  flowers  early,  sweet,  and  new  ! 

And  bloomed  more  beautiful  and  fair 

Than  rarest  flowers  on  earth  elsewhere. 

The  blooming  blush  of  her  ripe  mouth, 
Whereon  the  grace  of  beauty  dewed, 

Like  scarlet  rose  blown  from  the  south. 
Seemed  to  the  eye  of  him  that  viewed. 


232  The  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War. 

Oh,  quaff  the  nectar  of  her  lips  ! 

Oh,  drink  the  glory  of  her  eyes  ! 
Oh,  young,  fresh,  beautiful,  she  sips 

The  beauty  out  of  Paradise. 
How  fair  ! — she  's  vanished  from  his  sight, 
The  day  so  sweet  fades  into  night. 
The  stranger-guest  scarce  fast  had  broke 
When  her  soft  voice  the  welkin  woke  ! 
The  music  of  her  step  he  hears  ! 

The  silken  sound  of  her  approach  ! 
Ecstatic  to  his  ravished  ears. 

His  coming  words  can  never  broach  ; 
Though,  could  he  tell  as  many  times 

As  there  are  flaming  stars  in  Heaven, 
His  thoughts  of  her  in  poet's  rhymes, 

Not  half  of  all  his  love  were  given. 
She  comes  !  that  gushing  glory  glides 
Toward  him,  and  near  him  now  abides. 
The  wanton  wind  has  opened  rude 
Her  dress,  and  laid  her  bosom  nude. 
Unknown  to  her,  for  she  was  pure. 
And  could  not  such  a  thing  endure. 
"  Good-morning  !     My  name,  stranger  fair, 
Is  Quantrell  ! — for  yours  could  I  dare  ?  " 
Said  he,  the  guest.     She  blushed  ;  her  hair 
Veiled  much  of  her  sweet,  shining  face. 
Tossed  by  the  breeze  that  still  kept  pace 
Full  well.     "  My  name  is  Earl,'  t  is  plain 
Lulu  Earl.     I  trust  you  will  regain 
Your  strength  lost  in  the  storm  and  rain, 


An  Historical  Epic  Poem.  233 

Our  home  is  small,  but  you  are  free 
To  all ;  I  pray,  at  home  you  '11  be." 
How  fair  !  how  sweet !  how  strangely  dear  ! 

With  love's  blush  mantling  on  her  cheek, 
Is  she,  the  gold-haired  maid,  that  here 

Stands  trembling  with  a  joy  unspeak. 
That  mystery  of  the  soul  glow'd  bright  ; 
'T  was  instant  love — 't  was  love  at  sight. 
She  loved  the  stranger,  on  her  part, 
With  all  the  passion  of  her  heart. 
He  loved  her  more  than  he  had  dreamed 
That  he  could  love — so  fair  she  seemed 
To  him — her  heavenly  hazel  eyes 
Broke  on  him  such  a  sweet  surprise, 
He  felt  as  though  some  Unknown  Power 
Had  placed  him  in  a  Heavenly  bower. 
When  they  did  part  to  them  't  was  known 
That  each  the  other's  heart  did  own. 
And  with  embraces  warm  and  sweet, 
As  when  o'er  clouds  two  angels  greet, 
They  parted  with  love's  deepest  vows, 
To  meet  to  marry  'neath  the  boughs 
Of  her  sire's  whispering  forest  trees, 
Where  chirps  the  wild  bird  in  the  breeze. 


234        The  Rhyme  of  the  Border   War. 


L 


CANTO  IV. 

quantrell's   soliloquy. 
O  !  yonder  is  the  king  of  day 


Peeping  o'er  the  forest  gray  ! 
Through  camp  the  echoing  noises  gay 
Sound  the  notes  of  a  gala  day. 
Fitful  the  songs  the  soldiers  sing — 
Wild  as  winter  and  soft  as  spring, 
As  hate  or  love  their  spirits  start 
With  passions  deep  that  touch  the  heart. 
It  is  the  camp  of  Jennison, 
And  all  his  men  are  full  of  fun 
And  liquor — for  the  leader  thought 
They  that  drank  most  the  better  fought. 
Lo  !  who  those  men  with  soldier  grace, 
Conversing  there,  with  face  to  face  ? 
'T  is  Jennison,  and  him  we  've  seen 
Out  in  the  storm  and  in  the  green 
And  lovely  vale.     ''  Now,  while  away, 
I  found  a  spot  more  fair  than  day  : 
And  made  such  friends  I  ask  your  aid 
That  no  one  harms  them  in  the  raid. 
Since  I  have  e'er  been  to  you  true. 
This  one  request  I  make  of  you — 
Avoid  this  valley  ;  change  your  route, 


An  Historical  Epic  Poem.  235 

And  I  will  be  your  faithful  scout, 
As  I  have  been  your  trusted  spy." 
"  Impossible,  e'en  though  I  try  ! 
For  my  wild  clan  will  me  defy. 
My  wounds  will  keep  me  here  for  days  ; 
My  clan  have  money  sworn  to  raise  ; 
They  know  the  land  where  you  have  been. 
The  richest  all  the  country  in. 
Since  I  am  wounded,  sick,  and  sore. 
Then  either  you  must  lead,  or  Moore. 
Since  you  decline  my  place  to  touch. 
Because  my  men  have  drank  too  much, 
As  leader,  Moore  must  act  as  such. 
Although  I  'd  like  your  wish  to  grant, 
I  'm  very  much  afraid  I  can't  !  " 
Though  Quantrell  showed  not  one  alarm. 
He  needs  to  warn  his  friends  of  harm — 
On  the  first  steed  which  meets  his  eyes, 
Far  from  the  camp  he  swiftly  flies  ! 

****** 
"  They  come  !  they  come  !  "  said  Quantrell,  low, 
To  her  he  loved — while  neared  the  foe. 
With  doors  and  windows  bolted,  barred, 
In  Earl's  house  the  defenders  warred. 
Here  Hildebrand  displays  a  might 
In  marksmanship  that  proves  his  right 
As  tutor  of  his  nephews — they 
Ever  as  true  an  aim  display. 
Their  foes  still  pour  from  out  the  woods, 
Fierce  demons  from  the  solitudes  ! 
Now  back,  that  wild  and  hellish  horde 


236  The  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War, 

Seeks  shelter  which  the  woods  aiford, 

To  wait  a  while,  for  night  is  near, 

When  they  '11  attack  with  less  of  fear. 

Lo  !  yonder  in  her  pale  career. 

The  moon  wheels  by  each  tarrying  sphere  ; 

And  yonder  from  the  umbrage  shade, 

Which  spreading  oak  majestic  made, 

A  form  unseen  save  by  that  Eye 

That  sweeps  all  space  below,  on  high, 

Creeps  through  the  high  and  thick-grown  grass, 

As  sly,  a  serpent  oft  will  pass. 

And  lo  !  a  flame  leaps  toward  the  sky  ! 

The  door  opes  and  the  inmates  fly  ! 

The  rifle's  crack  the  vale  awoke, 

Amid  the  battle's  fire  and  smoke. 

****** 

The  morning  breaks — an  awful  morn. 

Within  the  vale  of  Avadore, 
Where  Lulu  Earl  was  happy  born. 

And  lived  where  all  was  peace  before 
The  hour  that  brought  the  murd'rous  band 
To  rob  and  slay  on  every  hand. 
That  band  had  vanish'd  with  the  night, 
Like  evil  ghosts  afraid  of  light  ; 
Their  wounded  warriors  and  their  dead 

They  took,  and  with  them  swiftly  fled. 
Hard  by  Earl's  cottage  four  are  dead. 

And  here  two  others  freely  bled — 
And  one  was  young  and  very  fair, 
And  one  stood  o'er  her  in  despair. 
'T  was  Lulu  Earl  who  lay  so  weak, 


A7t  Historical  Epic  Poem.  237 

'T  was  Quantrell  stood,  too  full  to  speak. 

For  that  dear  one  he  loved  so  well 

Was  dying  from  her  wound  so  fell. 

"  Dear  Lulu  !     Darling  of  my  life, 

My  heart  is  broken  in  the  strife. 

And  with  thy  pain,  my  soul,  mine  own  !  " 

"  Dear  Will,  I  '11  leave  you  soon  alone  ! 

I  soon  shall  go,  but  have  no  fear — 

Now  opened  is  my  spirit  ear  ! 

List  !     I  hear  the  silent-footed  Hours 

In  endless  music  onward  go. 
And  close  beside  the  sylvan  bowers, 

I  hear  the  lovely  flowers  grow  ; 
I  hear  the  '  music  of  the  spheres  '  ; 

I  hear  the  angels  singing  now. 
Above  the  sky  where  Christ  appears 

With  pity  written  on  his  brow  !  " 
Low  Quantrell  sank  upon  his  knee. 
All  heedless  of  his  own  wounds  sore, 

And  kiss'd  the  lips  he  could  not  see 
For  tears  that  from  his  sad  eyes  pour. 

"  Kiss  me,  dear  Will !  a  farewell  kiss  !  " 

She  smiles  as  slowly  to  the  bliss 

Of  Heaven  she  goes — she  does  not  groan — 

She  smiles  in  death,  and  makes  no  moan  ; 

Like  soft  decline  of  summer  day 

She  sweetly  passed  to  God  away. 

As  morning  mist  floats  from  the  sod 

Her  spirit  passed  the  stars  to  God. 

All  that  in  life  's  most  wondrous  fair, 

In  death  none  with  her  could  compare  ! 


238  The  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War. 

"  This  deep,  dread  silence  !  is  it  death  ?  " 
Thought  Quantrell,  with  a  painful  breath. 
"  O  wake  !  and  feel  the  breathing  morn — 

O  wake,  my  loved  one,  wake,  dear  heart  ! 
Didst  thou  not  tell  me,  angel-born. 

That  nevermore  again  we  'd  part  ? 
She  wakes  not  !     God  !  can  this  be  death  ?  " 

Close  to  her  heart  he  placed  his  head, 
And  listened,  holding  fast  his  breath — 

Long  listened — cried  :  "  My  soul  is  dead  ! 
O  Christ,  where  art  thou  now  !  "  he  cried  ; 

"  Why  didst  thou  take  her,  God,  from  me  ? 
Why  hast  thou  me  time's  joy  denied  ? 

She  's  thine  through  all  eternity  ! 
All  gone  !     My  Lulu  gone  !     Great  God  ! 
Do  thus  I  feel  thy  chast'ning  rod  ? 
Father,  uncle — my  Lulu's  mother  ! 
And  my  beloved  and  only  brother  ! 
He  with  whom  1  oft  have  roved. 
Whom  I  loved — aye  !  more  than  loved — 
Lies  stark  !  his  generous  spirit  fled, 
Alas  !  alas  !  is  dead,  is  dead  ! 
Oh,  was  he  not  myself  almost, 

When  born  with  me  the  self-same  day  ! 
Methinks  I  hear  his  pensive  ghost. 

That  tfoth  to  me  for  vengeance  pray  ; 
As  there  he  lies,  he  so  like  me 
Doth  look  in  every  feature  free. 
Did  I  not  know  1  live  through  pain 
I  'd  swear  my  very  self  were  slain  ! 
All,  all  are  gone  save  me  forlorn — 


An  Historical  Epic  Poem.  239 

Why  was  I  left  ?     Was  it  to  mourn  ?  " 

"  No  !     No  !  "     "  What  voice  is  that  I  hear  ?  " 

"  To  avenge  the  dead  you  are  left — 
The  dead  that  to  you  are  so  dear, 

So  ruthlessly  were  you  bereft  !  " 
When  that  voice  died  upon  his  ear, 

As  *'  one  crying  in  the  wilderness," 
Cried  Quantrell  :   "  It  is  well  !     I  hear  ! 

I  shall  avenge  !  ease  your  distress  ! 
Hear  me,  high  Heaven  !     O  God,  me  hear  ! 
And  ye  !  my  friends  in  spirit  near, 
I  shall  avenge  each,  all  of  you. 
And  make  your  murderers  bitter  rue 
The  hour  they  wrought  this  fearful  woe. 
In  streams  that  through  their  vitals  flow  ! 
This  tribute  to  your  memory — 
The  golden  past  so  sweet  to  me — 
From  this  time  forth  I  well  shall  pay, 
From  morn  till  night,  from  night  till  morn  I  '11 

slay  ! 
Five  thousand  men  brought  on  my  woes, 
Five  thousand  men  make  up  my  foes. 
I  know  them  all — each,  every  one, — 
And  none  shall  my  just  vengeance  shun  ! 
Five  thousand  men  shall  feel  my  power. 
Shall  'neath  my  hand  of  vengeance  cower  !  " 


240  The  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War. 


CANTO  V. 

QUANTRELL  AND    JENNISON. 

"T^  IS  eighteen  hundred  and  sixty-two — 
-'■       The    north  winds   pierce    the   deep    hills 
through  ; 
September,  and  the  leaves  are  browned 
That  fly  the  breeze,  that  cover  ground, 
And  droop  upon  the  trees  around. 
Missouri  river  waters  flow. 
All  swollen  in  their  channel  go. 
A  hundred  mounted  men  or  more. 
Armed  to  the  teeth,  are  on  the  shore. 
A  moving  arsenal  each  seeming, 
From  the  many  weapons  gleaming 
From  belts  and  boot-legs — every  side, — 
All  bristling  as  they  onward  ride. 
All  sudden  south  their  way  they  take — 
All  sudden  swifter  progress  make  ! 
To  land  of  Harris  they  have  come 
To  take  the  products  of  his  home  ; 
To  get  by  right  of  might  a  share 
Of  the  rich  farmer's  bounteous  fare. 
In  front  of  that  bold  company 
The  leader  rides,  and  marked  is  he 
Above  the  vulgar  herd  of  men — 


An  Historical  Epic  Poem.  241 

Above  the  herd  pent  in  the  pen 
Of  common  thoughts  and  things  and  ways, 
Where  one  day  shows  the  life  of  days- 
Repeats  the  past,  tells  what's  to  come, 
As  footsteps  sound  continual  hum. 
Though  small  of  build,  one  understands 
From  looks,  that  he  alone  commands. 
His  air  and  aspect  this  confess 
In  language  words  cannot  express. 
His  eyes  are  blue,  the  deepest  blue, 
And  almost  black  they  sometimes  grew — 
'T  was  when  of  wrongs  their  owner  thought, 
Of  which  the  bitter  past  was  fraught. 
He  was  not  handsome,  yet  his  face 
Express'd  a  strong,  strange,  winning  grace  ; 
His  form  was  sinewy,  strong  though  spare — 
Wronged,  he  was  a  lion  from  his  lair. 
The  flag  borne  by  a  war-scarr'd  son, 
Tells  unto  each  and  every  one 

The  chieftain's  name — with  black  background, 

The  name  of  "  Quantrell,"  dreaded  'round. 

His  hat — each  bold,  wild  follower's  too — 

Toss'd  high  a  plume  of  raven  hue. 

His  fierce  men  no  allegiance  knew 

Save  to  him  who  had  ta'en  them  through 

All  kinds  of  dangers,  wild  and  dread, 

And  yet  did  save  them  from  the  dead. 

All  quailed  beneath  his  eagle  eye, 

All  him  obeyed  and  asked  not  why. 

They  looked  upon  him  as  a  sage. 

The  mighty  Nestor  of  his  age. 


■242  TJie  RJiyiite  of  the  Border  War. 

They  looked  to  him  as  to  a  God 
Who  held  o'er  earth  a  magic  rod — 
A  potent  wizard  power,  that  wrought 
Great  wonders — with  a  mystery  fraught. 
In  th'  mysterious  wise  he  'd  grown — 

Of  the  bright  stars  he  'd  learned  man's  fate- 
Beyond  earth's  confines  the  unknown 

He  knew,  but  dared  not  to  relate. 
Napoleon  cross'd  the  Lodi  o'er, 

With  followers  that  feared  at  first ; 
So  Quantrell  led  the  way — before 

He  went — his  men  against  the  worst — 
It  booted  not  the  odds  how  great. 
They  trusted  all  to  him  and  fate. 
He  seemed  as  cool  in  battle's  roar 
As  though  he  walked  the  calm  sea-shore, 
And  though  war's  missiles  fell  like  rain. 
He  ever  passed  above  the  slain. 
Hence  many  thought  some  Unseen  Power 
Protected  him  each  woful  hour. 
Be  as  it  may,  it  seems  that  fear 
Had  never  whispered  in  his  ear. 
He  lived  aloof,  what  vengeance  mude, 
A  daring  Northern  renegade. 
He  cared  not  for  the  Southern  Cause, 
He  cared  not  for  man's  puny  laws, 
He  fought  for  vengeance  and  his  foes 
Fought  'neath  the    Federal  flag.     His  woes 
Were  great,  for  all  he  loved  were  gone 
To  that  strange  bourne  where  phantoms  wan 
Hold  mystic  rites — life's  secrets  learn, 


An  Historical  Epic  Poem,  243 

For  which  all  truly  great  souls  yearn. 
Aye,  those  he  loved  with  all  his  heart, 

With  all  his  soul,  in  their  blood  fell 
By  Jennison  and  clan  ;   the  smart 

In  his  breast  rankles  like  a  hell. 
Once,  in  bold  Jennison's  command, 

He  rose  above  the  ranks,  soon  earned. 
Because  the  leader  of  the  band 

Found  he  knew  more  than  he  had  learned 
Of  war's  black  art — yet  did  betray 
The  greatest  trust  that  cheers  life's  day. 
Those  promised  to  protect  he  ^  slew  ; 

Would  number  Quantrell  with  the  dead. 
But  fate  decreed  his  foes  should  rue 

Through  him,  that  sacred  blood  was  shed. 
Yet  Quantrell,  with  a  conscience  keen, 
Felt  if  he  could  he  'd  rather  been 
A  soldier  on  the  Northern  side  ; 
But  fate  and  vengeance  this  denied. 
All  through  the  war  his  thoughts  upbraid 
That  he  lived  on  a  renegade — 
As  when,  by  God  from  home  and  Heaven 
Ambitious  Satan,  distant  driven. 
Far  onward  solitary  went. 
And  far  through  space  his  journey  bent, 
With  thoughts  full  bitter  with  defeat. 
And  a  remorse  pride  could  not  cheat, 
That  he  had  with  his  Father  warred, 
And  with  his  brother,  Christ,  our  Lord, — 
Though  swift  through  dread  immensity 
'  Jennison. 


244  ^^^^^  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War. 

He  flies  the  boundless,  bottomless  sea — 

O'er  frozen,  over  fiery  worlds, 

Past  burning  meteor  as  it  hurls, 

Expecting  to  some  realm  obtain, 

Where  he  might  e'er  unrivalled  reign  ; — 

Though  Quantrell  thus  unhappy,  he 

Kept  hidden  all  his  misery  ; 

Provoked  to  vengeance,  his  loved  slain, 

A  Nemesis  he  roamed  the  plain. 

Thus  hatred  overpowers  well 

All  other  passions  ;  thus  he  fell. 

He  thought  with  feelings  dread,  aghast, 

Death  ravished  all  the  golden  past, 

Which  was  so  bright — too  bright  to  last  ! 

Alone,  one  panacea  he  found, 

In  war's  dread  thunders  echoing  round  ! 

"  Poole,  post  a  guard  on  yonder  hill  ; 

And  then  we  '11  try  and  get  our  fill 

From  this  old  farmer's  well-stocked  farm  ! 

The  guard  is  placed  to  watch  for  harm  ; 

They  hasten — enter  through  the  gate, 

Where  earth  seems  not  so  desolate 

As  most  spots  where  the  iron  feet 

Of  war  had  trampled  down  unmeet. 

The  farmer  came  unto  his  door 

And  hailed  them  as  a  friend  of  yore  ; 

This  a  surprise  and  too  a  foil 

The  foe  each  thought  he  would  despoil. 

When  Quantrell  scanned  his  features  free, 

Awoke  a  sleeping  memory, 

For  there  before  his  flashing  eye 


Art  Historical  Epic  Poem.  245 

Stood  one  he  knew  in  days  gone  by. 
"  Dismount  !  "  the  mighty  chieftain  said  ; 
And  at  the  word  his  men  obeyed. 
Beneath  the  farmer's  broad,  wide  roof, 
Which  knew  the  mingled  warp  and  woof 
Of  happier  days^  the  guerrillas  came, 
Ate  of  the  store  the  farmer's  dame, 
Assisted  by  her  daughter  fair, 
Set  forth, — a  maid  of  beauty  rare. 
Oh  !  she  was  wondrous,  passing  fair  ! 
And  she  was  happy — debonair — 
A  spirit  she  of  fancy  wild — 
A  dreamer  was  this  lovely  child. 
But  summers  seventeen  had  flown 
Since  she  had  come,  one  of  God's  own. 
She  'd  heard  the  golden  laugh  of  Flowers  ; 
Heard  step  of  silver-footed  Hours 
As  they  walked  on  the  mystic  heights 
Of  all  the  mornings,  noons,  and  nights. 
Beneath  the  moon's  and  stars'  soft  light 
She  'd  heard  the  voices  of  the  night 
Go  sweetly  laughing  back  to  God, 
As  she,  the  child  of  nature,  trod 
The  forest  path  o'er  sand  and  sod. 
The  past  to  her  was  like  a  dream — 
The  present  hers — the  future's  beam 
She  knew  not  ;  it  is  well,  I  trow — 
That  future  's  hard  and  full  of  woe. 
Alas  !  how  short  the  sight  of  man  ! 
Beyond  the  future's  veil  none  scan  ; 
The  present  is  a  flower  we  see — 


246  The  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War, 

The  past  lives  o'er,  a  memory. 

The  future  points  with  hope  afar, 

Like  child  that  longs  to  grasp  a  star. 

The  outlaws  all  enjoy  the  hours 

Well  spent  'midst  wines  and  vines  and  flowers. 

Behold  the  ruby  wine  they  pass, 

It  flames  and  dances  in  the  glass  ! 

Hark  to  the  song  that  John  McKeene 

Sings  to  guitar  the  young  girl  plays  ; 
By  nature  song  is  his,  I  ween 

In  song  a  talent  he  displays : 

"  Give  Heaven  the  good  and  Hell  the  bad  ; 

Yield  me  the  lovely  and  the  fair. 
For  though  my  heart  be  sick  and  sad, 

A  girl's  sweet  face  dispels  my  care. 
Drink  !  drink  the  rosy,  sparkling  wine. 
To  woman,  lovely  and  divine  ! 

*'  Oh  !  what  *s  the  poet's  lofty  wreaths, 
To  sweeter  wreaths  of  woman's  arms, 

Encircling  you,  when  beauty  breathes. 
Her  true  love  gemm'd  by  all  her  charms  ! 

Then  drink  the  rosy,  sparkling  wine, 

To  woman,  lovely  and  divine  ! 

"  Then  drain  the  foaming,  sparkling  glass, 
To  her  who  brings  such  peace  and  bliss  ; 

Whose  tender  eye  we  cannot  pass 
Without  we  long  to  woo  and  kiss  ! 

Drink  !  drink  the  rosy,  sparkling  wine, 

To  woman,  lovely  and  divine  !  " 


A  n  Historical  Epic  Poem.  247 

When  he  had  closed,  fair  Annie's  eyes 
Gleamed  with  a  sudden,  sweet  surprise. 
The  singer  was  a  handsome  man  ; 
The  maiden  did  his  features  scan 
Until  she  found  his  eyes  on  her, 
And  then  she  blushed  to  find  they  were. 
Her  heart  was  not  a  frozen  lake 

On  whose  cold  brink  fond  Cupid  stands, 
But  it  was  warm,  like  winds  that  wake 

In  June,  blown  from  the  Southern  lands  ; 
This  love  we  sometimes  see,  apart. 

Forever  glowing  fresh  and  new — 
A  flower  that  grows  from  near  God's  heart — 

Immortal,  radiant,  sweet,  and  true. 
****** 
Low  sinks  along  the  purple  hills, 
Which  shadow  vale  of  flower  and  rills, 
And  gives  the  forest,  black  and  dun, 
The  aspect  of  a  thing  to  shun — 
That  its  dense  wilds  do  deep  afford 
The  stronghold  of  a  robber  horde — 
The  setting  sun,  and  softly  glances, 
Farewell  to  earth  as  night  advances. 
When  Quantrell  and  his  men-at-arms 
Left  their  kind  friends.     Said  he  :  "  If  harms 
Thy  foes  one  single  hair,  good  sir, 
Of  yours  or  your  good  folks,  I  swear 
To  make  them  rue  the  hour  they  came 
To  do  thee  wrong — so  sure  my  name 
Is  Quantrell.     Though  I  'm  deemed  a  ghoul, 
God  knows  I  am  not  near  so  foul — 


248  The  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War. 

Deemed  wretch  on  earth,  astray  from  Heaven, 

Who  lost  the  route  that  God  had  given, 

I  have  one  virtue  'midst  my  crimes — 

I  bear  a  grateful  heart  all  times. 

Who  my  dark  hours  tries  to  make  less 

Will  ever  find  me  in  distress 

A  friend  ;  and  never  be  it  said 

When  needed  most  I  ever  fled, 

Though  foes  unnumbered  trod  him  down 

And  all  the  world  gave  him  a  frown. 

Men  struck  my  heart  a  bitter  blow. 

They  pose  as  patriots,  but  my  foe  ; 

I  've  naught  against  stars,  stripes,  or  states, 

A  victim  I  of  all  the  fates  ! 

Ohio  ^  is  my  boyhood's  home — 

Fate  forced  me  from  that  land  to  roam  ! 

A  twin — my  brother  slain,  and  all 

I  dearly  loved.     Their  ghosts  now  call 

For  vengeance  from  the  hills  and  vales. 

Hark  !  now  I  hear  their  mournful  wails  ! 

The  South  outlaws  me — doth  ignore — 

Because  I  will  not  spare  a  foe 
Of  those  who  brought  forevermore 

A  bitter  and  eternal  woe. 
For  Southern  rights  I  do  not  call, 
Th'  Confederacy  must  surely  fall  ! 
I  stand  alone  ! — I  'm  not  afraid  ! — 
An  outlaw  and  a  renegade  ! 
Farewell !  "  he  said.     Each  man's  good-bye 
Is  spoken  in  a  hand  toss'd  high. 

^  Canal  Dover,  Tuscarawas  County,  Ohio. 


An  Historical  Epic  Poem.  249 

O'er  each  guerrilla's  head  defined 

His  black  plume  nodded  to  the  wind. 

They  hasten  on  ;  their  friend's  kind  eyes 

Fain  follow  them  along  the  skies. 

Lo  !  Luna  rises  soft  and  bright 

Above  the  battlements  of  night  ! 

O'er  outlaw'd  loveliness  of  wilds 

Where  fairest  forest  flower  smiles. 

Lo  !  see  upon  yon  great  hill's  height, 

Beneath  the  floating  moon's  pale  light, 

The  tall  guerrillas'  shades  appear 

Those  warlike  phantoms  mortals  fear. 

Seen  but  a  moment  in  the  mist, 

Then  pass  like  shades  the  sun  hath  kiss'd ! 

****** 

The  soft,  round  moon  did  yet  blush  red. 

Like  beauteous  rose  above  the  dead  ; 

And  like  the  lamps  the  saints  hang  out 

For  sin-freed  spirits  on  their  route 

To  Heaven,  burned  bright  across  th'  skies 

And  lit  far  space  to  mortal's  eyes  ; 

When,  like  ten  thousand  demons  driven, 

That  have  no  hope  to  be  forgiven. 

There  rose  a  mad  and  mocking  yell 

That  sounded  like  a  direful  knell ! 

Piercing  the  deep  wolds  through  and  through. 

And  sweeping  the  wide  prairies  too. 

Jay  hawkers  came,  and  came  Redlegs/ 

Because  good  Harris  oped  his  kegs 

^  An  independent  clan,  fighting  under  the  Federal  flag,  and 
peculiarly  uniformed  with  red  stockings  and  knee-breeches. 


250  The  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War. 

Of  wine,  his  cupboard,  larder,  all. 
To  Qiiantrell's  men,  for  carnival. 
This  outrage  to  the  Jennison  cause, 
Brings  punishment  by  outlaws'  laws. 
A  dark  form  neared  the  Harris  home, 
And  call'd  :  "  Halloo  !  awake  and  come  ! 
I  'd  speak  to  you  and  ask  advice  !  " 
The  farmer  answered  in  a  trice. 
But  scarcely  had  he  loosed  the  door, 
When  he  fell  dying  on  the  floor, 
And  loud  report  of  carbine  shot 
Rang  on  the  night  air  round  the  spot  ! 
They  fire  the  house — see  it  consume, 
And  crumble  to  a  Jennison  tomb  !  ^ 
The  horsemen,  led  by  Jennison, 
Sped  Quantrell's  men  with  knife  and  gun, 
And  when  they  overtook  that  clan 
There  was  a  battle  every  man 
Of  them  will  ne'er,  will  ne'er  forget. 
Though  dews  of  fivescore  years  may  wet 
His  brow  ;  for  it  was  fierce  and  hot, 
And  angry  poured  the  whistling  shot  ! 
And  savage  foes  from  hand  to  hand. 
Stained  with  their  blood  the  shifting  sand. 
Of  those  who  fought  in  furious  rage. 
Many  were  young  on  life's  strange  stage  ; 
Some  felt  the  winter  of  their  age  ; 
All  mingled  in  the  battle  cloud, 
While  surged  the  voice  of  conflict  loud  ! 

^  The  term  applied  to  the  remains  of  the  houses  burned  by 
Jennison. 


An  Historical  Epic  Poem,  251 

As  fierce  the  fight  as  Wilson  Creek/ 
Where  the  brave  dead  fell  fast  and  thick. 
With  ensign  "  Quantrell,"  a  black  flag  high, 
Proudly  flaunted  the  smoky  sky  ; 
While  high  the  patriots'  flag  streamed  out, 
O'er  Redleg  and  Jayhawker  rout. 
The  serried  ranks  of  friend  and  foe, 
Fought  hand  to  hand  and  toe  to  toe, 
The  war-horse  rears  and  strikes  as  fierce 
As  rider,  whose  sharp  bowies  pierce 
The  quivering  flesh  and  harder  bone — 
When  fall  the  mighty  with  a  groan. 
It  was  a  fierce  and  awful  fight  ! 

The  men  that  died  in  conflict  great, 
They  fought  as  demons  in  Hell's  light, 

For  some  poor  fickle  boon  of  fate — 
That  light  so  dreadful  in  its  glare 
It  makes  e'en  darkness  welcome  there. 
Yells  rose  to  anxious,  listening  stars  ! 

Near  kindred  to  the  Great  Unknown — 
They  sank  until  earth's  centre  jars, 

And  Neptune  startles  on  his  throne  ! 
As  oft  here  Quantrell  plainly  showed 

Why  his  feared  name  was  dreaded  so  ; 
Why  his  foul  fame  e'er  redder  glowed 

'Long  border,  wheresoe'er  men  go. 
While  foes  his  death  forever  sought, 

To  lay  him  bleeding  on  the  sods  ; 


^  The  battle  of  Wilson  Creek,  which  was  a  great  victory 
for  the  Union  forces,  5,000  of  them  whipping  20,000  Rebels. 


252  The  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War. 

He  handled  weapons  quick  as  thought 
And  sent  them  howling  to  their  gods  ! 

As  down  the  midnight  depths  of  Hell 
A  fiend  is  hurled  by  unseen  hands  ; 

A  fiend  that  dared  to  mock  God,  fell 

From  high,  where  Heaven's  great  rampart  stands. 

"  'T  is  useless  that  the  just  assail  ! 

It  seems  the  fiends  these  days  prevail ! " 

Cried  Jennison,  when  Quantrell  fell 

Upon  his  troops  and  scattered  well  ; 

Till,  vanquished,  he  afflicted  grieves 

O'er  troops  now  scattered  like  the  leaves  ! 

For  few  that  lived,  with  him  had  fled, 

Leaving  their  own  unburied  dead 

With  Quantrell  and  the  men  he  led. 


When  John  McKeene  knew  all  the  truth, 
His  heart  was  touched  with  tender  ruth 
For  her,  the  black-eyed  girl  he  loved. 
From  whom  he,  war  compelling,  roved. 
With  a  short  leave  of  absence,  he 
Returned  to  her  he  longed  to  see. 
He  found  her,  and  he  vowed  to  take 
Swift  vengeance  on  their  foes,  and  make 
The  murderers  of  fair  Annie's  sire 
Deep  rue  the  deed.     'T  was  her  desire 
To  part  no  more  from  her  fond  lover. 
Though  yet  he  lived  an  outlaw  rover. 
Whether  the  cause  is  right  or  wrong, 
Whether  the  man  is  weak  or  strong. 


A?i  Historical  Epic  Poem.  253 

Woman  goes  where  her  heart  dictates  ; 

The  rest  she  leaves  unto  the  fates. 

As  McKeene's  wife,  she  vowed  she  'd  go 

In  Quantrell's  ranks,  for  weal  or  woe. 

Her  toilet  quick  she  donned — attired, 

Her  waiting  steed  she  vaults,  and  fired 

With  love's  desires,  they  scoured  the  lea — 

All  lily  pale,  yet  dauntless  she. 

On  through  the  solitudes  they  rode. 

Till  found  a  holy  man's  abode  ; 

No  time  to  lose,  since  wait  their  band. 

Since  dangers  lurk  on  every  hand. 

They  on  their  fiery  steeds  await 

The  marriage  vow  that  them  would  mate. 

The  man  of  God  pronounced  them  one, 

Then  like  two  phantoms  they  were  gone. 

In  man's  attire  now  changed  the  life 

Of  Annie,  the  guerrilla's  wife. 

Her  and  her  husband's  honeymoon 

Was  passed  'mid  scenes  of  blood  ;  no  boon 

Of  peace  or  rest  was  theirs  ;  they  saw 

The  awful  import  of  life's  law  ; 

They  realized  in  battles  red 

The  beauty  of  that  peace  far  fled, 

That  war's  black  art  was  Hell's  dark  plan 

To  feed  on  God's  best  gift  to  man. 


It  is  the  song-told  month  of  June, 
The  air  re-echoes  many  a  tune, 
The  angels  sing  to  God  on  high, 


254        The  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War. 

While  basking  'neath  His  tender  eye. 

When  seem  great  Presences  to  dwell 

On  hills,  in  woods,  and  flowery  dell. 

Great  beauties  may  all  radiant  be 

On  Earth,  which  man  's  too  blind  to  see  ; 

A  thousand  poems  unexpressed 

May  be  within  the  poet's  breast, 

Which  angels  read  that  wander  by, 

Sweet  pilgrims  from  beyond  the  sky. 

'T  is  morn  !  and  near  Lee's  Summit  town 

McKeene  and  wife  are  riding  down 

The  prairies  green,  with  friends  but  few. 

The  Seventh  Missouri  comes  in  view  ! 

But  eight  unto  a  thousand  strong, 

A  fight  begins,  but  lasts  not  long. 

As  Spartans  fought  in  days  of  old. 

So  fought  the  few  guerrillas  bold. 

Till  seven  were  slain  ;  among  the  seven 

Brave  John  McKeene  his  life  had  given  ; 

And  she,  his  wife,  in  soldier  garb. 

Lay  wounded  by  her  dying  barb. 

And  when  a  soldier  sought  to  slay, 

She  quickly  doth  her  sex  betray  ; 

For  ere  he  'd  time  her  death  to  track 

She  'd  pulled  her  long  hair  down  her  back. 

And  looked  at  him  with  woman's  eyes, 

Which  woke  in  him  a  soft  surprise. 

Her  beauty  held  him  like  a  dream — 

He  could  not  move,  so  fair  the  beam  ! 

Like  summer  moon  through  clouds  of  night, 


An  Historical  Epic  Poem.  255 

She  broke  upon  his  ravished  sight ! 
Oh  !  strangely  sweet  her  voice  did  seem — 
Like  Heaven-sent  whispers  in  a  dream  ! 
Spoke  as  she  lay,  sad,  weak,  and  wan  : 
"  My  loved  are  dead  ;  the  morning's  dawn 
Shall  never  break  for  me  with  light. 
God  !  am  I  dreaming  ?  all  is  night ! 
And  am  I  left  to  tread  life's  way 
Alone,  alone  !  O  gently  lay 
That  form  so  dear  low  to  his  rest ; 
Press  light  the  soil  above  his  breast  '  " 
The  fountain  of  her  soul  in  tears 
Flows  'long  the  shore  of  bitter  years. 
Beneath  a  giant  oak's  dense  shade 
The  corse  of  John  McKeene  was  laid. 
The  fair  one  found  in  convent's  halls, 
A  home  where  Mercy  sweetly  calls. 
Deep  in  recesses  of  each  heart 

Some  sacred  cherished  secret  lies. 
Which  tenderly  is  laid  apart 

From  the  rude  world's  inquiring  eyes. 
Sister  Celeste'  (Annie  McKeene) 
Sleeps  with  the  just  and  blest  I  w^een. 
God  ne'er  forgets  the  sore-tried  soul. 
Unknown  to  fame  or  at  fame's  goal. 
But  high  in  dark  mysterious  realm 

^  The  devout  Sister  of  Mercy  who  died  a  few  years  ago  of 
yellow  fever,  at  New  Orleans,  while  in  the  faithful  discharge 
of  her  duty  in  attending  to  the  wants  of  those  afflicted  with 
yellow  fever. 


256        The  Rhyme  of  the  Border   War. 

The  Mighty  One  directs  the  helm 
Of  all  that  's  been,  is,  e'er  will  be, 
Through  time  and  through  eternity. 


A  n  Historical  Epic  Poem,  257 


CANTO  VI. 


WILD    BILL. 


T    O  !  Phoebus  climbs  the  hills  of  morn  ! 
^^-^     And  white-robed  Day  is  newly  born. 
Far  o'er  the  prairies,  fair  to  see, 
Wild  yellow  sun-flowers  flourish  free 
For  miles  and  miles,  a  golden  sea  ! 
One  mile,  and  scarce  a  mile,  apart. 

Are  now  encamped  two  warlike  clans — 
But  soon  from  their  still  rest  they  '11  start, 

Prepared  for  battle's  dread  demands  ! 
Soon  shall  arise  the  voice  of  war. 
And  death  will  lead  the  wild  uproar  ! 
As  black  as  crime  out  one  flag  flows, 
With  "Quantrell "  writ  in  red  it  rose  ; 
While  o'er  the  other,  fair  as  light, 
The  stars  and  stripes  wave  proudly  bright ! 
Th'  brave  o'er  whom  the  Union  banner 
Floats  in  such  a  winsome  manner, 
Approach  their  foes,  whom  Younger  leads 
To  battle  where  the  warrior  bleeds. 
Why  is  not  the  great  guerrilla  here 
Whom  all  his  foes  so  well  do  fear  ? 
Low  lying  nigh  a  river  scaur. 
Where  ten  to  one  his  foemen  are. 


258        The  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War. 

Bold  Quantrell  waits  a  desperate  fight. 
His  officer,  with  force  bedight, 
He  had  despatched  upon  a  scout 
To  forage  through  the  land  about, 
Bushwhack,  and  any  foeman  rout. 
All  suddenly  Cole  Younger  heard 
A  voice,  all  others  he  preferred — 
A  voice,  in  tones  so  deep  and  loud 
It  seemed  to  pierce  the  trembling  cloud. 
From  Younger's  lips  this  warning  fell : 
"  My  boys  !  we  're  on  the  brink  of  Hell ! 
That  sound  is  Wild  Bill's  ^  border  yell !  " 
Bold  Younger  to  himself  now  thought, 
"  I  have  a  foe  I  have  not  sought  ! 
Though  in  my  day's  best  fighting  hour. 
This  foe  will  try  my  greatest  power — 
Try  power  of  each  and  every  man  ; 
He  leads  a  fierce  and  desperate  clan  ! 
I  do  confess  beneath  my  breath 
I  dread  to  fight  this  son  of  death. 
If  Quantrell  was  but  here,  how  proud 
I  'd  rush  into  the  battle  cloud. 
Though  I  'm  a  Hector  in  the  fight, 
Wild  Bill  's  Achilles  in  his  might ; 
But,  pshaw  !  I  '11  trust  all  to  the  fates — 
We  '11  war  like  devils  at  Hell's  gates  ! 
Buffalo  Bill  and  Texas  Jack, 
I  see,  help  lead  the  yelling  pack  ! 
And  Wild  Bill  wisely  still  retains, 

^William  Hicock,  famous  as  "  Wild  Bill." 


An  Historical  Epic  Poem.  259 

'  The  Evil  Spirit  of  the  Plains,' ' 
That  thunderbolt  of  might  and  war, 
Leaves  awful  carnage  near  and  far. 
These  men  seem  demons  fierce  and  fell, 
Whom  Satan  seems  to  shield  too  well. 
From  what  I  learn  they  're  on  a  scout 
To  spy  fierce  Quantrell's  secrets  out. 
They  search  in  vain,  for  Quantrell  's  deep, 
And  e'er  doth  his  own  secrets  keep  ; 
And  ever  sleeps  where  none  can  say, 
Safe  hid,  that  gold  may  not  betray. 
Boys  !  ere  we  enter  in  this  row, 
I  want  to  tell  you  here  and  now. 
That  your  best  fighting  must  be  done, 
Or  when  goes  down  yon  wandering  sun 
He  '11  look  upon  us  dead  and  stark. 
Gird  up  your  loins — each  weapon  mark — 
See  that  each  cartridge  is  at  hand, 
And  each  good  weapon  to  command  ! 
We  fight  Wild  Bill — he  comes  this  way — 
That  means  he  comes  to  murderous  slay  ; 
Though  drunk  or  sober.  Bill's  intent 
Is  to  lay  low  a  regiment 
With  crew  he  from  the  wilds  obtains, 
His  Indian-fighters  of  the  plains — 
Hark  !  once  more  Wild  Bill's  border  yell  ! 
Our  foes  are  nearing — lie  low  well  ! 
Down  with  the  steeds  ! — in  ambush,  so 
We  '11  have  advantage  of  the  foe, 
1  W.  F.  Cody,  i.  ^.,  "  Buffalo  Bill,"  known  among  the  In- 
dians by  this  title. 


26o  The  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War. 

And  get  the  '  drop '  on  them  I  know  ! " 
Down  sink  the  steeds,  well  trained  to  war, 
And  all  is  still  as  at  death's  door 
When  death  alone  is  there,  no  more. 
The  desperate  crew  that  Bill  doth  lead 
Now  dashes  by  at  headlong  speed  ; 
Cole  Younger's  clan  arise  and  fire, 
And  battle  shrieks  with  mad  desire. 
Now  Younger  cried  with  hurried  speech  : 
''  To  horse  !  and  for  your  foemen  reach  !  " 
They  mount,  they  charge,  fire  oft  and  well, 
While  Bill  and  boys  on  their  ranks  tell  ; 
Where  Wild  Bill  fought  the  dead  do  swell 
To  thrice  the  number  elsewhere  slain. 
He  flies,  he  flashes  o'er  the  plain — 
He  kills  before,  behind  the  same — 
Shoots  on  all  sides,  true  is  his  aim  ; 
He  fires  with  such  rapidity 
One  stream  of  fire  forever  free 
Flames  from  the  mouth  of  his  fire-arms, 
For  each  hand  a  revolver  warms. 
His  thundering  yells  incessant  rise. 
Which  tell  his  foes  he  them  defies  ; 
His  long  hair  snaps  and  cracks  behind. 
And  lashes  the  complaining  wind  ; 
He  bristles  like  a  porcupine 
With  weapons  growling  in  a  line — 
An  arsenal  that  spins  and  flies 
Before  the  watcher's  wondering  eyes. 
Savage  the  conflict,  dread  and  hot  ; 
Swift,  sure,  and  oft  the  fighters  shot  ; 


An  Historical  Epic  Poem.  261 

Oft  saddles  empty  as  men  die, 

Riderless  steeds  the  prairies  fly. 

The  doubtful  combat  they  maintain 

Till  night's  deep  shades  involve  the  plain  ; 

When  Younger  sent  one  of  his  men 

For  Quantrell,  lying  in  the  glen 

Hard  by  Blue  River,  waiting  then 

For  Jennison's  and  Ewing's  men. 

Came  Quantrell  quick  at  Cole's  desire. 

But  found  none  on  whom  to  wreak  his  ire  ; 

Wild  Bill  had  learned  of  Younger's  aid, 

And  vanished  in  night's  friendly  shade. 


262  The  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War, 


CANTO  VIL 

YOUNGER    AND    HIS    MEN. 

T^  ARTH  clothed  with  grass — with  each  fair 

^-^     thing 

Of  flowers — of  all  the  gems  of  spring, 

In  beauty  dreams  ;  thus  kissed  by  Heaven 

'T  would  seem  that  man  had  man  forgiven. 

Day  blushes  on  the  summit  height  ; 

There  dwells  a  calm  and  holy  still ; 
The  warring  winds  that  howled  all  night, 

Soft  whispers  breathe  upon  the  hill  ! 
As  bridal  bark  with  silken  sails 

First  leaves  its  moorings  on  Time's  shore, 
And  happy  speeds  before  soft  gales 

Adown  Life's  river,  each  explore. 
The  blithe  bird  winds  his  dulcet  horn, 
Whose  tones  float  through  the  depths  of  morn, 
For  silver  springs  of  beauty  flow 
From  his  fond  spirit,  rich  I  trow. 
And  morning  broke  upon  a  sight 
Of  carnage  of  a  fearful  fight  ! 
Upon  Cole  Younger  and  his  men 
Hiding  their  lost  in  the  shady  glen. 
'T  is  done  ;  each  warrior  turns  him  round 
To  seek  his  rest  upon  the  ground. 


An  Historical  Epic  Poem,  263 

Quoth  Younger  :    "  Boys,  our  fate  is  well, 

Though  many  of  our  comrades  fell ; 

We  warred  with  Titans,  not  with  men, 

Be  proud  of  the  battle  in  th'  glen, 

For  many  of  Bill's  warriors  slain 

Lie  silent  on  this  sombre  plain. 

Such,  such  is  war— no  use  to  weep 

O'er  those  that  woo  eternal  sleep  ; 

They  're  gone  beyond  our  power  to  keep.  • 

To-morrow  may  see  us  as  they  ; 

God  pity  every  one,  I  say  ! 

Boys  !  while  we  rest  I  '11  tell  a  story. 
Here  on  the  field  of  battle  gory  : 
In  Texas,  Wild  Bill,  with  a  score 
Of  Indian  fighters  of  the  plain. 
Was  driven  to  a  bloody  war. 

And  many  of  their  foes  were  slain. 
'T  was  on  a  time  when  Bill,  the  devil, 
Went  south,  '  to  hold  the  Texans  level.' 
His  followers  were  fifty  odd. 
And  they  were  rough  and  ready  shod 
For  any  conflict  great  or  small. 
In  Shelby  County— it  was  fall- 
Two  hundred  thieving  '  Regulators  ' 

Came  down  upon  them  like  a  flash  ; 
But  soon  they  rued,  these  Texan  traitors. 

That  they  had  made  their  reckless  dash  ; 
As  most  of  them  in  battle  fell 
So  few  were  left  the  tale  to  tell. 
Their  bloody  hurt  yet  rankles  sore, 
And  since  that  day  they  're  less  for  war. 


264  The  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War. 

They  wakened  Wild  Bill  and  his  crew, 
They  wakened  Bill  who  fifty  slew. 
Each  time  he  fires  a  foeman  dies, 
Thus  hundreds  fall  before  his  eyes. 
'T  was  this  that  made  his  bristling  name, 
'T  was  thus  he  got  his  *  drop  '  on  fame. 
Had  I  not  worn  a  steel  breastplate. 
Death  now  would  triumph  o'er  my  fate. 
Full  fifty  times  balls  struck  my  breast. 
To  flatten  on  my  armor  vest. 
This  steel-made  cap  upon  my  head 
A  hundred  times  has  stopped  his  lead." 
He  could  acknowledge,  and  he  would. 
The  prowess  of  a  foe  withstood. 
"  Well,  boys  !  up  now,  let  us  away  ; 
Dawn  crimsons  at  approach  of  day  ! 
And  ere  goes  down  yon  rising  sun 
Quantrell  meets  Ewing  and  Jennison. 
Down  near  the  Blue  he  ordered  me 
To  fail  not  at  the  battle  be." 
He  leaps  upon  his  war-horse,  light, 
And  spurs  him  toward  the  coming  fight, 
His  followers  close  upon  his  flight. 


A  n  Historical  Epic  Poem.  265 


CANTO  VIII. 


THE    SNI     HILLS. 


"PROM  out  the  deep,  on  golden  wings, 

-*•        The  blushing  angel  Morning  springs  ! 

And  her  fond  smiles  of  beauty  dwell 

On  hill  and  plain  with  magic  spell — 

Dwell  on  the  mist-clothed  hills  of  Sni, 

Which,  tower-like,  seem  to  touch  the  sky, 

Deep  in  whose  fastness  Quantrell  lay, 

To  fever's  slow  torments  the  prey. 

Reflects  he  on  his  years  of  life. 

On  childhood,  boyhood,  manhood's  strife, 

And  all  his  life's  acts  pass  him  by 

Like  sheeted  ghosts  we  oft  descry 

When  night  engulfs  the  world  with  shade, 

And  angels  breathe  "  Be  not  afraid  !  " 

Among  his  many  deeds  of  war 

There  's  one  he  deeply  doth  deplore. 

Olathe,  Lone  Jack,  other  places 

Gave  him  no  pain — but  one  disgraces 

All  others — and  he  cursed  the  day 

When  his  spy  did  his  trust  betray. 

And  thus  made  Lawrence  all  his  prey. 

He  cursed  his  weakness  at  that  hour 

To  check  his  men's  fierce  brutal  power, 


266  The  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War. 

Who  slaughtered  with  a  mad  desire, 

Inflamed  with  liquor's  fatal  fire — 

Like  maddened  bloodhounds  in  their  ire. 

He  cursed  his  base  and  treacherous  spy, 

Who  told  to  him  a  cruel  lie — 

Led  him  to  think  that  those  were  there 

Who  brought  him  all  his  mad  despair  ; 

Who  tore  asunder  each  loved  tie, 

And  waked  his  sleeping  battle-cry — 

Revenge  !  revenge  !  he  shrieked  in  vain, 

Nor  trampled  he  the  guilty  slain. 

Alas  !  too  late  !  in  frenzied  ire 

He  learned  the  truth  !  lo  !  bursts  forth  fire  ! 

Not  he  who  once  held  magic  power 

Can  check  his  madmen  in  this  hour. 

Yet  there  was  one  deed  which  sublime 

Should  glow  'mid  his  dark  deeds  of  crime. 

One  deed  that  's  hallowed  with  the  light, 

One  star  of  beauty  through  the  night. 

When  his  wild  crew  their  thirst  for  blood 

Glutted  on  hundreds  of  the  good, 

From  out  the  Eldridge  House  he  led 

Two  score  or  more  with  stealthy  tread, 

Them  to  the  city's  south  conveyed. 

There  to  protect  them  he  essayed  ; 

He  placed  them  in  a  barrack,  then 

With  his  fire-arms  defied  his  men. 


Hark  !  what  sound  of  hurrying  feet 
Awakes  the  silence  of  the  hills  ? 


An  Historical  Epic  Poem.  267 

And  yells  that  caverns  all  repeat, 

To  wind  that  wanders  where  it  wills  ! 
The  fierce  and  cruel  ghouls  of  war, 
The  open-mouthed  cannons  loudly  roar. 
Forgetting  all  his  sickness  now. 

The  great  guerrilla  chieftain  rose, 
And  mounting  his  black  steed — his  brow 

Is  scowled — he  spurs  to  friends  and  foes  1 
His  men  retreat  !     His  loud  war-cry  : 

"  Halt  !  right  about  !  beat  back  the  foe  '  " 
They  halt— they  charge— on  him  rely 

Who  e'er  hath  brought  them  out  of  woe. 
"  Yield  not  !  though  all  the  foemen  host 
Are  led  by  Hector's  mighty  ghost  !  " 
Though  Quantrell's  genius  was  in  war, 

He  gave  his  quick  commands  as  short 
As  words  express— to  army  lore, 

Not  speech,  he  ever  had  resort. 
"  'T  is  strange  !  "  he  thought,  "  that  Anderson, 

The  reckless  Bill,  should  thus  retreat  ! 
That  Frank  or  Jesse  James  should  run, 

Todd,  Poole,  or  even  Younger  beat 
A  back  track  when  't  is  wise  they  should, 
With  odds  too  great  to  be  withstood — 
Not  strange,  for  they  have  wisdom  good. 
But  Anderson  !  now  goes  he  back. 
Upon  his  red  and  bloody  track  ?  " 
This  all  through  Quantrell's  mind  quick  flashes, 
As  on  his  crime-hued  steed  now  dashes 
The  chief — Anderson  he  'd  sent  out 
Upon  a  far  and  dangerous  scout. 


268  The  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War. 

The  guerrillas  well  the  fight  maintain, 
Since  Quantrell  is  with  them  again  ; 
His  deep  defiant  thundering  yell 
All  their  wild  fears  doth  quickly  quell  ; 
His  well-known  and  assuring  voice 
Made  their  once  fearing  hearts  rejoice, 
Although  outnumbered  ten  to  one. 
But  where  is  he,  Bill  Anderson  ? 
"  Dead  !  "  a  guerrilla  said  ;  't  is  true — 
''  Died  'mid  a  score  of  foes  he  slew." 
On  his  proud  battle-footed  steed 
Quantrell  again  his  force  doth  lead. 
It  is  an  awful,  fearful  fight. 
For  neither  foe  will  take  to  flight  ; 
The  dead  are  falling  left  and  right. 
The  awful  clang  of  conflict  roars. 
Shakes  hills  and  distant  shelly  shores  ; 
Like  loud  terrific  thunder's  roll. 
Flashing  bright  light  from  pole  to  pole  ; 
The  sounds  of  battle  echo  far 

Throughout  the  misty  hills  of  Sni, 
Loud  thunders  dread  the  voice  of  war. 

And  seems  to  shake  the  distant  sky. 
The  stern  Avenger — Renegade — 

The  fearless  chieftain,  Quantrell,  fought 
Coolly,  which  his  men's  fears  allayed. 

Who  well  his  lion  spirit  caught. 
Day  wanes,  night  nears,  the  carnage  still 

Goes  on — red  Murder  walks  his  rounds, 
Oft  blanches  pale — disturbed  the  hill 

Trembles  at  war's  terrific  sounds. 


A  n  Historical  Epic  Poem.  269 

The  Redlegs  and  Jayhawkers  fought 

With  frenzy,  fury,  fierce  and  wild, 
'Neath  Jennison,  but  all  for  naught, 

For  Quantrell,  the  avenger,  smiled 
Upon  his  men,  a  potent  smile — 

A  smile  though  grim  and  like  the  war  ; 
His  men  from  it  took  hope  the  while, 

And  cyclone-like,  their  foes  before 
Them,  their  red  hands  of  vengeance  hurled, 
As  leaves  by  storm  swept  o'er  the  world. 


2/0  The  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War. 


CANTO  IX. 

GENERAL    EWING's    CAMP. THE    POET. 

'T^HE  breath  of  spring,  soft,  fresh,  and  rare, 
^     With  fragrance  sweet  of  unknown  flowers, 
Comes  wafting  through  the  yielding  air, 

And  bathes  with  love  the  hazel  bowers. 
And  one  who  wore  the  scallop  shoon, 
Who  lingered  yet  in  life's  fair  noon, 
Was  pacing  as  a  sentinel, 
Before  a  tent,  white,  wide,  and  tall ; 
Where  gallant  Thomas  Ewing  slept — 
Above,  the  stars  their  vigils  kept. 
Tom  Ewing  loved  this  child  of  song. 
Who  could  tell  adventures  strange  and  long 
In  the  richest,  happiest,  flowing  rhyme  ; 
Romances  of  a  bygone  time, 
He  sang  as  well  of  deeds  sublime. 
E'en  things  uncanny,  dark,  and  dull, 
From  his  refining  crucible 
Reflected  fair  and  beautiful  ! 
And  every  thing,  crude  though  it  be, 
Came  from  his  soul  in  beauty  free  ; 
In  liquid  music's  numbers  given, 
As  though  Christ  handed  joys  from  Heaven. 
The  poet's  heart  was  full  of  woe  : 


A  n  Historical  Epic  Poem.  271 

She,  whom  he  loved,  who  loved  him  so  ;  ^ 

The  daughter  of  his  country's  foe, 

Was  distant,  in  the  wilds  afar. 

And  her  near  kin  his  foes  all  are. 

But  deep  within  his  heart  he  swore. 

Her  hand  he  'd  claim,  although  the  roar 

Of  thousands  of  war  missiles  dire, 

Poured  forth  their  deadly  heated  fire. 

"  She  's  mine  !  "  he  said,  "  the  danger  *s  great— 
But  love  the  greatest  odds  defies. 

Who  would  not  dare  both  death  and  fate, 
To  win  so  sweet,  so  fair  a  prize  ?  " 

With  his  swift  courser  and  fire-arms, 
He  ventured  to  defy  all  harms, 
And  bear  the  lovely  girl  away. 
Who  pined  in  secret  for  the  day 
When  he,  the  child  of  song,  would  come 
And  bear  her  from  her  sylvan  home. 
He  wooed  her  with  the  poet's  power 
Of  love,  that  blooms  a  heavenly  flower. 
He  told  her  that,  perchance,  her  name— 
Her  love  for  him  one  beauteous  flame, 
With  his— would  live  in  song  and  fame  ; 
Greater  than  kings  with  kingdoms  strong, 
Are  the  mighty  kings  of  song. 
For  kings  and  kingdoms  pass  away 
As  snow  beneath  the  sun's  hot  ray. 
The  true  bard's  verse  will  live  alway, 
Like  one  eternal  summer  day. 
She  listened  to  his  songs  of  love. 
And  hence  was  lost  to  all  save  him  ; 


2/2  The  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War. 

His  poems  burned  like  stars  above, 
Like  magic  worked  on  woman's  whim. 

His  song  could  win  Amazon's  heart. 

Who  can  resist  the  poet's  art, 

His  that  fine  frenzy  of  the  brain, 

Which  the  true  poet  doth  retain  ? 

There  was  no  sin  that  Ethel  gave 

Heart,  soul,  and  all,  unto  the  brave 

And  noble  son  of  silken  song 

Against  friends'  wishes  ! — wherefore  wrong  ? 

An  angel  in  its  flight  afar — 

God's  messenger — may  pause,  nor  wrong, 

To  list  a  moment  to  some  star 

Which  hath  immortal  power  of  song  ; 

Nor  would  God  chide  that  angel  sweet. 

Though  learned  to  love  that  star  so  meet. 

'J*  'J*  T»  H»  ^  TV 

Night  on  the  plain  !  the  moon  divine. 

Through  Heaven's  boundless  depths  sails  on, 
Nor  mist  nor  cloud  now  stains  the  fine, 

Fair  glories  in  the  night's  sweet  dawn. 
O  beautiful !  O  angel  night  ! 

Fair  night  of  June  from  God  above, 
'T  would  seem  that  in  thy  holy  light 

E'en  iron  hearts  would  melt  to  love. 
The  poet's  dreams  of  conquest  tell — 
'Neath  window  of  the  peerless  belle, 
His  daring  vow  he  now  fulfills  ; 
With  song  he  wakes  the  vales  and  hills, 
And  her  whom  long  his  soul  did  mourn  ; 
And  well  his  singing  robes  adorn, 


An  Historical  Epic  Poem.  273 

While  touching  soft  his  harp  of  love, 
To  her  who  longed  with  him  to  rove — 
To  fly  to  distant  happier  lands, 
Beyond  the  wild  and  troubled  strands  : 

''  Dear  Ethel  J  fair,  sweet  child  of  God, 
From  love's  own  fountain  we  do  drink — 

From  love's  own  fountain,  o'er  which  nod 
The  passion-flowers,  upon  the  brink. 

"Snow-bosom'd  love  !  Oh,  I  love  thee  ; 

Thy  kisses  are  more  rich  and  rare 
Than  all  the  other  mouths  that  be, 

Of  all  the  many  rose-lipped  fair. 

"  I  see  thy  face  in  every  star 

That  blossoms  on  the  field  of  night  ; 

0  love  !  thou  knowest  I  've  come  far 
To  gaze  upon  thy  beauty  bright  ! 

"  Thy  voice  sweet  murmurs  in  mine  ears. 
In  dreams — in  dreams  you  smile  on  me — 

Like  music  of  the  happy  spheres, 
I  breathe  this  melody  of  thee. 

"  From  clouds  that  float  at  eventide, 
.Soft,  purple-tinted,  gold,  and  blue, 

1  see  one  fair  as  God's  own  bride  : 

She  smiles  !  lo  !  darling,  it  is  you  ! 

"  The  thought-flowers  of  thy  mind  so  high. 
So  beauteous  blush  far  o'er  earth's  sod. 


2/4  The  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War. 

That  angels  wing  'twixt  earth  and  sky, 
And  carry  all  those  flowers  to  God. 

"  A  golden  bell  of  Heaven  rings  now 
The  matin-hour  of  thy  sweet  prime  ; 

The  flower-time  of  thy  life,  I  trow. 
Is  breathing  odors  rich  as  rhyme 

"  Of  Byron — sweet  as  Shelley's  tone — 
In  their  grand  lays  of  life  and  love. 

Dear  girl  !  fair  girl  !  thou  'rt  all  mine  own  ; 
A  gift  God  sent  me  from  above  ! 

"  Oh  !  sweet  is  summer's  twilight  hour — 
The  hour  when  day  sinks  to  his  rest  ; 

And  like  a  weary  child  each  flower 

Sleeps  on  its  Mother  Earth's  broad  breast. 

"  Sweet  is  the  star  of  eve,  that  pale 
Far  glows  beyond  the  shores  of  night, 

When  are  heard  the  robes  of  angels  trail 
Adown  their  Heaven-lit  halls  of  light. 

"  But  Ethel  !  thou  art  lovelier  far 

Than  twilight  hour  with  dreams  so  fair — 

Than  star  of  eve — than  angels  are, 

E'en  though  their  radiant  beauty  's  rare. 

"  Dear  one  !  so  like  a  rose  you  seem. 

Sweet  blushing  lone  in  woods  afar, 

Accept  this  rose  I  plucked  in  dream, 

From  sweet  land  nestled  by  a  star. 

\Here  a  rose  is  throwfi  into  the  maiden's  windoiv.'] 


An  Historical  Epic  Poem.  275 

"  Oh,  rose-lipped,  rich-lipped  one  ! 

Kissed  with  the  dewy  wine  of  love, 
I  long  to  clasp  thee  as  the  sun 

Burns  for  the  loveliest  star  above  ! 

"  In  dreams  I  'm  kiss'd  by  thee,  who  smiles  ; 

Though  thou  art  far,  sweet  memories  wreathe; 
Though  we  be  parted  by  long  miles. 

Sweet  odors  of  thy  soul  I  breathe. 

"  The  music  and  the  poetry, 

O  love  !  of  thee,  sweet  being,  near, 

Is  sweeter  than  all  else  to  me. 

More  lovely  and  more  dearly  dear. 

"  Alone  with  thee  and  God,  oft  I, 

Deep  love-drowned  by  thy  charms  so  rare, 

Do  pluck  the  star-flowers  from  the  sky. 
And  place  them  in  thy  silken  hair. 

"  Oft  gaze  down  in  thy  star-lit  eyes  ; 

See  thy  sweet,  gentle  spirit  smile. 
And  linger  there,  in  Paradise, 

Afar  from  every  thing  that  's  vile. 

"  The  rose  that  thy  cheek  blushes  fair, 
A  poem  blooms  all  poets  greet — 

Which  kindred  angels  of  the  air 
Read  with  delight,  for  it  is  sweet. 

"  Were  I  a  dream  in  thy  fond  breast, 
What  dearer  Heaven  could  there  be  ? 


2/6  The  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War. 

I  then  would  be  forever  blest, 
From  every  secret  sorrow  free. 

"  Ope  !  ope  thy  milk-white  arms  to  me  ; 

Caress  me  with  thy  kisses  warm  ; 
Swoon  on  my  kiss  alone  for  thee, 

While  I  clasp  thy  fair  blushing  form. 

"  Come  !  let  me  sink  and  dream  and  rest, 
O  Queen  of  angels  !  sweet  and  fair  ; 

Upon  the  heaven  of  thy  breast, 
And  fondly  love  thee  ever  there. 

"  Ethel  !  my  beautiful  !  mine  own  ! 

To  look  upon  thy  face  inspires 
Sweet  dreams  I  ne'er  before  have  known. 

And  kindles  all  love's  sacred  fires. 

"  Oh,  every  moment  kept  from  thee 
Is  bliss  that  's  lost  forevermore — 

A  gulf  of  sorrow  unto  me. 

Where  waves  in  fury  lash  the  shore 

.     ''  You  look  so  fair  I  deem  it  true 

You  bathe  in  dew  of  Heaven-grown  flowers 
Which  God  did  plant  himself  for  you 
About  his  angel-builded  bowers. 

"  On  purple  pinions  wing  the  Hours — 
Happy  since  thou  seest  them  fly — 

And  lovely  are  the  beauteous  flowers 
Whene'er  they  know  that  thou  art  nigh. 


An  Historical  Epic  Poem.  277 

"  The  perfume  of  thy  love  for  me 
Is  sweeter  than  rose  scent  so  bright, 

Though  Queen  of  all  the  flowers  that  be, 
Has  not  the  sweets  thy  charms  unite. 

"  In  the  deep  clear  Heaven  of  thine  eyes, 

0  lovely  music-footed  maid  ! 
I  see  the  joys  of  Paradise 

And  feel  to  highest  Heaven  I  've  strayed. 

"  I  never  lived  till  I  knew  thee. 

For  never  have  I  loved  before  ; 
I  used  to  walk  the  earth,  but  free 

1  now  along  the  skies  do  soar. 

**0  Morning  Star  of  all  my  love  ! 

A  sea  of  glory  dreams  afar. 
When  I  behold  thee,  my  sweet  dove, 

With  beauty  fairer  than  the  star. 

"  And  when  I  feel  thy  loving  kiss, 

A  golden  glow  of  happiness 
Steals  through  my  soul — it  is  a  bliss 

That  language,  dear,  fails  to  express. 

"  With  sweetest  words  that  love  can  frame 

In  poetry  I  '11  sing  thy  praise  ; 
Aye  !  I  shall  garland  thy  dear  name 

With  beauteous,  melting,  lovely  lays. 

"  Oh  !  it  shall  e'er  be  my  delight 

To  guard  thee  waked  and  in  thy  dreams  ; 


278  The  Rhyi7te  of  the  Bo7'dcr  War. 

I  '11  kiss  thee  to  thy  rest  at  night, 

And  watch  thee  till  the  morning  beams. 

"  The  hours  I  pass  with  thee,  dear  one. 
Are  silken  hours  of  peace  to  me. 

When  flowing  streams  of  sweetness  run 
Through  all  my  soul  with  melody  ! 

"  The  fair  blush  of  thy  blooming  years 
Doth  fill  my  days  with  golden  gleams  ; 

And  wrapped  in  sleep,  your  love  endears 
And  fills  my  night  with  beauteous  dreams. 

"  O  Ethel  !  in  thy  sweet  young  years 
You  bloom,  'midst  all,  the  fairest  rose  ; 

Thy  heart  of  hearts  you  hide  with  fears 
You  would  not  to  the  world  disclose. 

"  When  I  thy  circling  zone  embrace, 
And  kiss  thy  lips  for  me  alone  ; 

My  heart,  my  soul,  my  being  trace 

Thy  goodness  which  but  Heaven  can  own. 

"  When  sad  o'er  buried  hopes  I  grieve 

Beside  a  lone,  neglected  tomb. 
As  summer  sweet,  serene  as  eve, 

Thy  smile  makes  all  my  being  bloom. 

"  Thy  eyes  light  up  my  soul  of  gloom 

As  Earth  lights  'neath  the  kiss  of  Heaven  ; 

And  life  flowers  toward  a  perfect  bloom — 
Flowers  fair  like  soul  by  Christ  forgiven. 


Afi  Historical  Epic  Poem.  279 

"When  Morn  her  eyelids  opens  wide, 
And  glances  on  the  world  below, 

I  long  to  have  thee  by  my  side — 
The  fairest  of  the  flowers  that  grow. 

"When  day  walks  o'er  the  gulf  of  Time,    . 

As  Christ  walked  o'er  the  troubled  sea, 
E'en  midway  in  the  hours  sublime 

My  yearning  soul  goes  out  to  thee. 

"  When  comes  the  hour  King  Sol  doth  pray 
To  God— far  in  the  west,  ere  fled— 

Ere  sinking  down  in  ocean  gray 
To  sleep  among  the  mighty  dead, 

"  I  long  for  thee,  sweet  star  of  night  ! 

And  hearken  to  the  roving  hours, 
That  whisper  of  thy  beauty  bright 

And  lovely  hope's  delightful  bowers. 

'  Dear  Ethel !  strangely  dear  to  me, 

You  float  my  day  and  nightly  dreams 
Like  some  fair  star  we  ever  see, 

That  on  us  down  from  Heaven  beams. 

"  O  Ethel !  dearest,  darling  love  ! 

I  '11  love  thee  while  the  years  increase  ; 
Thy  beauty  comes  where'er  I  rove. 

And  brings  me  pleasure,  hope,  and  peace. 

"  Oh,  when  I  sip  of  thy  sweet  lips 
The  purple  wine  of  love  I  quaff  ; 


28o         The  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War. 

I  heed  not  time,  though  by  it  slips, 

For  through  me  sweetest  pleasures  laugh. 

"  O  noble,  lovely,  loving  girl, 

Rest,  rest  secure  that  I  am  thine. 

Throughout  life's  wild  and  stormy  whirl 
I  '11  love  thee  with  a  love  divine  ' 

"  Of  all  fair  ones  that  I  have  chanced 

To  meet,  I  've  thought,  't  is  she  I  've  sought ! 

But  when  I  in  each  soul  advanced 

I  've  found  a  waste  where  there  was  naught. 

"  No  flower  of  fragrance  blossomed  there — 
Each  soul  was  like  a  fair  sad  tomb, 

Which  stands  in  snowy,  blank  despair, 
With  no  sweet  rose  and  no  perfume. 

"  But  when  I  found  thee,  then  I  cried 
In  joy,  for  well  I  knew  thy  soul 

Was  blushing  with  the  sweets  denied 
To  others — I  had  reached  the  goal. 

"  Hope  breathes  in  beauty  sweet  and  fair, 
Of  when  thou  'It  nestle  by  my  side, 

When  thou  art — t'  whom  none  can  compare — 
Mine  own,  my  loved,  my  beauteous  bride  ! 

"  In  dreams  upon  thy  beauteous  breast 
Then  let  my  feverish  being  sleep, 

For  I  am  weary  and  would  rest 

Where  cares  are  not,  nor  shadows  keep," 


A  n  Historical  Epic  Poem.  2  8 1 

When  closed  his  song,  the  loved  and  fair 

Young  girl  doth  in  hope's  castle  dwell, 
She  longed  to  fly  with  him  who  dare 

For  her  war's  dangers  brave  so  well. 
Down  from  her  window  by  a  rope 

She  swung  his  eager  eyes  to  charm  ; 
Swift  as  winged  Love  keeps  pace  with  Hope, 

She  in  her  lover's  arms  fell  warm. 
"  Thy  song  was  sweet !  Oh,  sweet  indeed, 
And  wakens  those  that  must  not  heed 
Thy  sweet,  thy  pure,  thy  lovely  lay  ! 
O  Claude  !    O  dearest  Claude,  away  ! 
Around  us  all,  where'er  we  turn. 
They  come  !  I  see  their  torchlights  burn  ! 
Their  stern,  fierce  faces  now  deride — 
They  've  sworn  I  shall  not  be  thy  bride  !  " 
Her  eyes  burn  through  her  silken  veil, 
Where  love  and  passion  sweet  prevail  ! 
Her  vermil  lips,  ripe,  rich,  and  sweet. 
Melt  on  each  other  when  they  meet. 
Those  luscious  lips  in  sweet  repose 
Bloom  on  her  face  a  breathing  rose. 
Her  breath  like  that  fair  flower  as  sweet. 
It  charms  each  zephyr  it  doth  meet. 
Her  swelling  bosom  panted  high  ; 
Her  soul's  warm  passion  through  her  eye 
Came  melting  as  her  bonny  head 
Lay  on  his  breast  with  whom  she  fled. 
Lovely  as  moonlit  Venice  dreams 
The  ages  by,  so  beautiful  she  seems  ! 
The  poet  sees  they  're  hemmed  in  quite, 


282  The  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War. 

And  sees  no  way  to  pass  in  flight, 
How,  with  his  lovely  burden,  fight ! 
Thrice  now  his  raven  charger  neighed  ; 
Thrice  now  his  hands  on  weapons  laid, 
A  new  thought  thrills  him  :  he  would  try, 
And  pass  high  o'er  his  foemen  nigh  ; 
His  steed  which  doth  pursuit  defy, 
Could  leap  proportionately  high. 
He  told  his  plan  to  her  who  lay 
Upon  his  breast,  like  Hope  at  day. 
Defiance  shot  from  his  dark  eyes  ; 
Swift  as  a  flash  away  he  flies 
With  her,  the  lovely  and  the  fair  ; 
Swift  as  a  flash  they  cleave  the  air  ; 
They  pass  the  heads  of  those  below, 
They  leave  behind  the  following  foe. 
His  steed,  one  'midst  a  million  horse, 
Had  mighty  lungs  of  iron  force. 
As  sometimes  powerful  mind  in  man 
Accomplishes  what  none  else  can — 
Does  that  which  others  dare  not  try, 
He  wins — they  gaze  with  wondering  eye  ! 
While  other  steeds  fagged  in  the  chase, 
He  onward  hastened  in  his  pace  ; 
While  foes  grew  weary,  weak,  and  hot. 
Far  o'er  the  ground  he  swiftly  shot. 
A  wizard's  gift  he  seemed,  a  boon 
To  him  who  wore  the  scallop  shoon. 
The  thunder-footed  courser  fled 
Like  some  great  phantom  from  the  dead. 
Did  all  men  well  his  swift  steed  know 


An  Historical  Epic  Poem.  283 

Who  would  pursue  the  flying  foe  ? 

The  radiant  Ethel  Golder  sleeps  ; 

She  knows  she  's  safe  with  him  who  keeps 

Her  in  his  arms,  and  she  feels  blessed  ; 

Wearied  in  flight,  she  sinks  to  rest. 

As  there  she  lies,  so  sweet  and  white, 

Kiss'd  by  her  lover,  God,  and  night, 

A  fair  bark  she  by  tempest  tossed 

In  dangerous  waters  lone  and  lost. 

On,  on  they  dash  ;  the  tall  pine  trees 

Pass  by  them  like  a  long  blue  breeze  ; 

His  raven  courser,  black  as  night. 

Swift  rushes  on  like  storm  in  flight ; 

Thunders  along  like  some  vast  train — 

He  knows  the  way,  and  has  the  rein. 

On,  on  through  night — o'er  plain  and  hill, 

Past  mountains,  where  the  wolf  his  fill 

Of  howling  pours  to  ear  of  night, 

Which  oft  the  great-eyed  owl  doth  fright. 

Who  wings  his  sullen  flight  anigh. 

The  flying  triune  passing  by. 

Trees,  rocks,  and  mountains  whirling  seem 

By  them  as  if  it  were  a  dream. 

Like  voice  of  sad  and  troubled  deep. 
The  moaning  night-wind  strikes  the  ear, 

As  if  some  mournful  ghost  doth  weep. 
Remorsefully  its  earth  career. 

Dim  in  the  clouds  the  hills  above. 

Strange  phantoms  weirdly  seem  to  move. 

And  shadow  lake,  long,  wide,  and  deep, 

Whose  waters  lie  in  glassy  sleep. 


284         The  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War, 

Orion  and  the  Bears  give  light, 

From  the  dim  cloudy  shores  of  night. 

"  Star-whispering  night  !  canst  thou  not  tell 

Life's  secrets  to  my  yearning  soul  ? 
Canst  thou  not  tell  me  where  doth  dwell 

The  Great  God  at  the  highest  goal  ? 
A  sentence  from  the  golden  lips 

Of  yonder  star  so  fair  and  bright, 
Might  wisdom  shed  to  man,  who  dips 

The  blackened  waters  of  earth's  night  ; 
Yet  like  a  melody  far  fled 
God  's  silent  on  the  mountain-head. 
Oh,  this  will  be  till  He  appears 
Far  gazing  o'er  the  countless  years  ! 
Wake  !  maiden  in  thy  loveliness — 
That  thy  sweet  gaze  my  spirit  bless — 
And  with  me  listen  to  the  sea, 
Which  speaks  a  tender  memory  !  " 
She  wakes  !  love's  blush  is  on  her  cheek, 

Red  as  the  rich  and  rosy  wine, 
And  sweetly  from  her  eyes  do  speak 

A  beauty  that  is  all  divine — 
A  beauteous  love  that  lives  sublime — 
That  lives  beyond  the  reach  of  time, 
Like  flowers  immortal,  fair  and  sweet, 
That  bloom  in  Heaven  at  Jesus'  feet. 
On,  on  they  dash  ;  the  landscapes  are 
By  them  traversed,  then  left  afar  ; 
Now  through  a  moonlit  valley  sleeping 

Beneath  a  robe  of  fairest  flowers. 
While  far  above  star-souls  are  peeping 

On  twilight  earth  and  mortal  hours. 


An  Historical  Epic  Poem.  285 

The  Hours  have  chased  the  stars  away, 

There  blushing  comes  the  stepping  Day, 

As  Night's  skirts  trail  far  down  the  skies, 

Before  the  watchers'  wondering  eyes 

Dew-spangled  scenes  the  earth  adorn, 

'Neath  lifted  eyelids  of  the  Morn. 

The  opal-colored  morning  calls 

Blithe  birds  and  happy  madrigals. 

Now  Claude  Lorraine,  the  poet,  thought 

On  life,  on  man — on  what  man  wrought — 

His  aims,  ambitions,  and  desires. 

Again  his  Ethel  sleeps — she  tires 

With  the  long  ride — 't  is  well !  when  fine 

She  was  so  flowery — feminine — 

For  she  was  saved  the  rude  fierce  shocks 

Of  nature,  where  the  forest  mocks. 

The  bard  hears  Nature's  sweet  refrain, 

This  poet  strange — strange  Claude  Lorraine. 

O  man  !  thou  stranger  on  the  earth — 

Forever  restless  from  thy  birth. 

Thy  love,  O  wretch  !  for  what  is  not 

Makes  life's  foiled  hopes  a  hapless  lot. 

Each  great  man  marks  where'er  he  trod 

In  his  lone  pathway  up  to  God. 

Who  tells  a  truth  that  's  real  and  clever. 

Tells  it  to  the  world  forever  ! 

Each  breeze  that  blows  across  the  brow 

Bears  something  of  God's  wealth  of  love — 
Oh,  garner  what  He  yields  you  now, 

And  profit  wheresoe'er  you  rove  ! 
The  sky  so  soft  above  the  earth, 

Is  veil  of  blue  God  spreads  between 


286  The  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War. 

Man's  world  and  where  the  saints  have  birth- 

They  that  see  man,  by  man  unseen. 
Is  this  the  noon  of  earth  ? — its  prime  ? 

Is  this  man's  hour,  elate  and  wise  ? 
Or  do  we  live  in  that  sad  time, 

'Midst  wreck  of  earth's  fair  paradise  ? 
Greater  than  conqueror  or  king, 

The  thinker  of  his  throne  of  Thought 
A  sceptre  wields — puissant  thing — 

By  which  mutations  great  are  wrought. 
The  true  bard's  poems  ne'er  will  die, 
For  God  inspires  them  from  on  high. 
When  earth,  time,  man,  have  passed  away, 
Heaven's  angels  will  his  songs  essay. 
As  glorious  Shakespeare's  mighty  name 
Far  stars  the  skyey  heights  of  fame. 
Christ's  life  's  a  poem  more  sublime 
Than  any  given  unto  rhyme. 
There  are  dark  times  when  naught  can  bless 
The  poet's  sense  of  loneliness. 
E'en  'midst  thp  press  of  outward  life — 
When  doth  awake  the  inner  strife 
Of  soul  with  unseen  powers  that  be, 
To  learn  life's  strange,  strange  mystery  ; 
There  e'er  seem  hues  of  tender  grief, 
Like  yellow  on  the  autumn  leaf, 
When  thoughts  of  poet  seem  to  burn 
To  read  the  secrets  of  etern. 
A  greater  mystery  th'  life  on  earth 
Than  that  we  live  beyond  as  now, 
From  life  grows  life — another  birth — 


A  n  Historical  Epic  Poem.  287 

From  whence  came  man,  and  how  ? 

Hark  !  songsters  waked,  sing  merrily.  . 

And  other  notes  of  melody. 

We  hear — we,  of  the  keener  sense. 

Who  list  with  hearts  and  souls  intense  ; 

O'er  earth  the  distant  melody 

That  's  sung  in  Heaven  eternally. 

Above  earth's  battlements  and  portals 

The  song  that  's  sung  by  the  Immortals  ; 

A  song — a  poem — grand,  sublime — 

'T  is  little  dreamed  this  side  of  time. 

'T  is    this    for  which   on   earth  forevermore  we 

yearn. 
To  comprehend  God's  poem,  th'  Epic  of  Etern. 

Like  mighty  rush  of  torrent  goes 
The  jet  black  courser  on  his  way  ; 

Far  from  the  presence  of  the  foes, 

Earth  drinks  the  full-blown  blush  of  day. 

And  she,  the  silken  soul  of  love. 

Looks  in  her  lover's  eyes  above  ; 

While  he  sees  all  of  Paradise 

In  the  sweet  beauty  of  her  eyes  ; 

As  o'er  the  golden  twilight  sea 

A  voice  steals  like  a  memory 

Of  happy  love,  the  bard  is  blessed. 

By  Ethel's  lovely  arms  caressed. 

"  Too  fair,  too  pure  for  time's  vile  touch 

Art  thou,  dear  one,  I  love  so  much  ! 

Oh,  night  comes  not  when  by  my  side 

Thou  art  ;  O  Darling,  there  abide  I  " 


288  The  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War, 

Her  love  was  like  impassioned  light —         • 

A  yearning,  burning,  steady  fire  ; 
She  threw  her  soul,  a  star  so  bright, 

Impulsive  to  her  heart's  desire. 
He  kissed  her  rich  vermilion  lips, 

The  burning  beauty  of  her  eye 
He  drank,  and  from  her  being  sips 

The  glory  of  her  spirit  nigh. 
Once  more  she  sleeps — for  she  's  at  peace 

And  happy  in  her  lover's  arms  ; 
And  now  his  reveries  increase. 

For  whom  the  mystical  hath  charms. 
The  stars  are  tears  that  God  once  wept, 

Far  back,  when  e'en  Etern  was  young  ; 
When  all  of  life  save  He  yet  slept 

In  womb  of  Chaos  yet  unsprung. 
His  tears  fell  through  the  endless  waste 

Till  angels  sprang  to  life  and  light, 
When,  with  their  beauty  charmed,  they  placed 

Them  on  the  garland  brow  of  night. 
The  soul  e'er  lives — to  Him  goes  back 

From  whence  it  came  to  earth  and  time  ; 
Aye  it  will  live  when  stars  grow  black 

And  fade — live  on  fore'er  sublime  ! 
Though  Wrong  may  riot  for  a  time, 

And  Evil  veil  in  robes  of  Good, 
As  o'er  prose  soars  sweet  song  sublime, 
So  Right  shall  rise  o'er  Wrong's  black  flood. 
As,  fashioned  by  the  hand  of  God, 

Yon  mountain,  clothed  in  mist  and  snow, 


An  Historical  Epic  Poein.  289 

Looms  o'er  the  clouds  where  none  have  trod 

Save  angels  that  guard  man  below, 
So,  fair  in  loneliness  doth  sleep 
Yon  lake's  wide  waters  bright  and  deep. 
God's  open,  piercing  eyes  see  all  ! 

His  mighty  hand  of  awful  force 
Compels  the  dreaded  storm  to  fall, 

And  guides  the  wandering  planet's  course. 
Far  through  the  clouds  and  storms  of  life 

The  pole-star  of  unburied  truth 
Shines  bright,  e'en  though  the  selfish  strife 

Of  some  may  blind  their  eyes,  forsooth. 
We  fret  because  of  limitation. 
And  ever  yearn  for  far  progression  ; 
Perchance  when  God  the  gates  of  Truth 

Opes  with  the  key  of  eternity, 
'T  will  prove  to  all  his  tender  ruth 

In  veiling  earth  with  mystery  ! 
The  Universe,  though  great  and  grand, 
Is  in  the  hollow  of  God's  hand. 
Two  souls  are  in  the  poet's  breast, 
They  e'er  produce  a  wild  unrest  ; 
One  yet  would  cling  to  earth  and  time, 
One  o'er  the  stars  would  soar  sublime. 
''  Midnight,"  the  poet's  glossy  steed, 
Still  onward  passed  in  wondrous  speed. 
While  lovely  Ethel  slept  away, 
Under  the  rosy  depths  of  day. 
Mountains  rise  as  the  courser  scours, 
Higher  than  Ilion's  haughty  towers. 


290         The  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War. 

The  flower  of  life,  though  long  or  brief, 

Opens  its  petals  leaf  by  leaf. 

Through  yon  wild  forest  dark  and  wide 

Perchance  lone  spectres  ever  glide  ; 

Perchance  these  woods  of  ebon  night 

Conceal  some  fearful  ghoul  from  sight, 

Where  fiends  oft  curse  the  straying  light 

That  violates  eternal  night  ! 

As  ghastly  as  the  Gorgon's  head  . 

The  evil  things  these  forests  tread. 

Here  the  weird  witches  of  the  midnight  air 

Howl  round  the  hills  and  shake  their  hissing  hair. 

I  love  to  rove  at  early  morn. 

And  breathe  the  scent  of  daisies  rare. 
When  Summer,  Spring's  fair  child,  is  born, 

To  walk  the  vales  a  virgin  fair. 
.  I  love  to  hear  the  march  of  God 

A'S  He  dread  thunders  through  the  deep  ! 
It  tells  me  here  on  earth's  low  sod 

He  doth  o'er  all  a  vigil  keep. 
The  morning  star  of  life  is  still 
For  me  soft  glancing  on  the  hill  ; 
Yet  gloom  oft  settles  on  my  soul 
And  waters  dark,  unceasing  roll, 
As  Raphael  found  the  gates  of  hell 
Strong  barricaded  by  a  spell. 
When  he  was  sent  from  Heaven  to  see, 
How  wrought  the  sons  of  sorcery. 
Oh  for  an  atmosphere  more  clear 

Than  that  of  common  men  and  things, 
To  soar  high  o'er  the  welkin  here. 

On  purple  azure,  golden  wings  ! 


An  Historical  Epic  Poem,  291 

Here  on  a  hill  of  golden  hours, 

I  reach  the  summit's  fragrant  flowers. 

'Midst  pensive  hours  that  boon  is  sweet, 

Unknown  unto  the  vulgar  wise, 
The  poet  in  his  soul's  retreat. 

Above  all  other  things  doth  prize  ! 

•5V  *  *  *  *  * 

O  God  !   shall  open-throated  war 
O'er  this  fair  land  forever  roar  ? 
From  this  too  long  afflicted  land, 
Hurl  crime  with  Thy  almighty  hand. 
Through  endless  days,  Truth,  in  her  sway, 
O'er  Falsehood  sails,  high  on  her  way, 
As  the  immortal  starry  spheres. 
Sail  o'er  the  battlements  of  years. 
Some  mortals'  reason  proves  to  be 
Of  vision  short — but  sophistry — 
As  woman's  suffrage  wrongs  her  rights. 
It  yields  her  thorns,  her  roses  blights, 
It  hurts  the  home,  the  marriage  tie. 
It  wakes  the  little  children's  cry, 
It  steals  the  soul's  sweet  poesy, 
Its  trend  is  immorality. 

Woman's  course  is  high,  toward  Heaven's  light, 
Why  drag  her  down  to  paths  of  night  ? 
The  rights  of  children  suffer  wrong 
Through  time  the  mother  gives  the  throng. 
Her  social  life  leads  from  her  door. 
Her  life  political  the  more. 
Her  child  to  guide,  good  thoughts  instill, 
The  mother's  place  none  else  can  fill. 
Her  child  in  charge  of  heedless  ones, 


292       The  Rhyme  of  the  Border   War. 

Embraces  things  the  parent  shuns. 
Should  its  bark  ride  the  waves  of  time, 
Its  life  perchance  is  vice  or  crime. 
She  who  the  little  child  well  trains, 
Till  it  the  path  of  God  attains, 
Exerts  an  influence  bright  alway, 
When  thrones,  empires,  and  worlds  decay. 
Through  love,  man's  sweetest  heritage. 
She  rules  the  great,  the  mightiest  sage. 
To  keen  insight  this  suffrage  beams 
The  theorist's  Utopian  dreams. 
Blind  leaders  !     I  predict  it  here  : 
Woman  betray  from  her  high  sphere. 
And  ruin  will  the  home  assail. 
And  discord  on  the  earth  prevail. 
Idolaters  of  theory,  stay  ! 
No  Nestor's  counsels  guide  your  way. 
You  'd  add  to  woman's  duties,  more — 
Man's  burdens,  till  life's  work  is  o'er. 
You  'd  change  the  laws  of  nature,  you  ? 
Attempt  what  God  refused  to  do  ? 
Unchecked,  man's  actions  are  too  free, 
So  limits  law  his  liberty. 
When  ignorant  millions  ^  menace  us, 
Why  multiply  our  perils  thus  ? 
History  repeats — what  was  will  be — 

*  Anarchists,  Communists,  Nihilists,  Socialists,  foreigners, 
and  the  very  ignorant  native-born  Americans,  When  the 
male  vote  of  these  classes  already  threatens  our  Government, 
is  it  wise  to  double  the  power  of  these  dangerous  elements  by 
giving  their  wives  and  daughters  the  ballot  ? 


An  Historical  Epic  Poem.  293 

Beware  !     Rome's  fall  was  anarchy  !  ^ 

Up  from  the  azure  hills  of  God 

A  living  presence  seems  to  rise, 

And  soar  above  the  heavy  clod 

Of  earth  unto  fair  Paradise. 

The  dewdrop  on  yon  fragrant  flower 

May  be  the  tear  of  some  sweet  star 

That  weeps  for  joy  that  God's  great  power 

Shields  all  creation  near  and  far. 

Oh,  could  the  music  of  my  lyre 

Follow  the  high  flight  of  my  will. 
To  highest  Heaven  I  would  aspire, 

Beyond  the  poet's  holy  hill  ! 
Oh,  life  's  a  strange  mysterious  dream, 

Commingling  with  the  day  and  night ; 
I  long  have  tried  to  find  that  beam 

Which  will  make  all  things  clear  and  bright. 
Aye,  vast  as  night,  as  endless  morn 

I  've  sought  life's  great,  mysterious  truth 
In  vain — with  me  this  feeling  born. 

Hence  melancholy  's  mine  forsooth. 

^  The  exhaustive  and  logical  treatises  by  the  historian,  Francis 
Parkman,  in  "The  North  American  Review,"  October,  1879, 
and  January,  1880  ;  the  concessions  of  the  suffragist  author, 
T.  W.  Higginson,  in  "  The  Forum,"  January,  1887  ;  the 
Sixteenth  Amendment  dissertation  by  U.  S.  Senator  John  J. 
Ingalls,  in  "  The  Forum,"  September,  1887  ;  the  conclusions 
of  Gail  Hamilton,  in  "  Woman's  Wrongs"  ;  the  experiences 
and  confessions  of  Mrs.  Kate  Gannett  W^ells,  whose  earnest 
work  for  the  advancement  of  her  sex  is  widely^ known  ;  the 
experience  of  Rev.  Brooke  Herford,  and  others,  with  limited 


294        The  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War. 

The  nameless  tumuli  on  th'  shore 

Of  lone  seas  with  unhappy  skies, 
May  hold  a  germ  forevermore, 

Of  knowledge  hid  from  wisest  eyes. 
Eternal  whispers  breathing  'round, 

Breathe  the  warm  soul  of  other  days. 
I  feel  the  import  deep,  profound  : 

God  is  not  far  from  him  who  prays — 

woman  suffrage  in  England  ;  the  opinions  of  such  famous  and 
conscientious  thinkers  as  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson,  Rev.  T. 
DeWitt  Talmage,  Mrs.  Anna  Jameson,  Miss  Mulock,  John 
Boyle  O'Reilly,  Richard  H.  Dana,  Prof.  W.  W.  Goodwin,  of 
Harvard  University  ;  Rev.  O.  B.  Frothingham,  etc.,  prove  to 
an  unprejudiced  mind  that  fanaticism  instead  of  wisdom  dic- 
tates the  extreme  views  of  those  who  would  lead  as  advocates 
of  woman  suffrage.  And  T.  W.  Higginson,  the  eminent 
author  and  prominent  woman-suffragist,  concedes  some  of 
the  evils  of  woman  suffrage  in  "  The  Forum  "  of  January, 
1887,  in  the  following  language  : 

*'  It  is  logically  possible,  and  we  must  frankly  recognize  the 
fact,  that  the  enfranchisement  of  women  in  a  number  of  the 
States  will  give  a  majority  of  the  votes  to  the  women,  and  the 
men  of  these  States  will  be  numerically  as  powerless  as  the  wo- 
men are  now.  It  will  be  equivalent  to  a  transfer  to  a  wholly 
inexperienced  constituency,  not  merely  the  balance  of  power, 
but  its  very  substance.  Not  often  in  the  history  of  the  world 
has  a  body  of  voters  deliberately  opened  its  ranks  to  admit  a 
reinforcement  larger  than  itself.  Yet  in  almost  every  one 
of  the  older  States  of  the  Union  this  will  literally  happen  on 
the  day  when  women  are  enfranchised.  .  .  .  Whatever 
may  have  been  the  corruptions  of  our  political  life,  they  have 
thus  far  had  the  limitation  of  being  entirely  masculine ;  the 
familiar  intercourse  of  the  sexes,  in  legislative  halls  and  com- 
mittee rooms,  is  a  thing  of  the  future.  The  actual  conduct  of 
legislation,  and  still  more  of  political  parties,  involves  an  im- 


An  Historical  Epic  Poem.  295 

When  his  cause  is  both  wise  and  just, 
And  earnest  prays  because  he  must. 
I  hear  the  bells  of  heaven — they  ring 

The  ending  of  epoch  old  : 
O  Wisdom,  brood  and  spread  thy  wing 

More  freely  o'er  the  new  unrolled. 
Great  minds  most  honor  worth  and  brain, 
Small  minds  to  honor  wealth  are  fain. 

mense  deal  of  the  most  private  and  confidential  conference  by 
day  and  evening.  Who  that  remembers  the  Woodhull  and  Claflin 
period  of  our  social  history,  or  the  Beecher-Tilton  controversy, 
can  look  without  some  anxiety  to  the  utterly  unrestricted 
mingling  of  men  and  women,  in  periods  of  great  excite- 
ment, and  under  the  strongest  inducements  to  use  whatever 
means  of  influence  may  prove  most  potent  in  dealing  with  one 
another  ?  There  will  be  no  point  so  vulnerable,  no  mode  of 
attack  so  promising,  as  those  growing  out  of  the  question  of 
personal  chastity,  in  these  untried  relations.  To  all  the  pres- 
ent opportunities  for  scandal  there  will  be  added  a  new  one  ; 
and  this  in  the  hands  of  an  unscrupulous  antagonist  will  be 
worth  all  the  rest  put  together.  This  consideration  is  strength- 
ened by  the  fact  that  the  promoters  of  such  scandals  will  not 
be  the  vicious,  but  the  virtuous  portion  of  the  community,  and 
especially  women  themselves.  Once  create  the  impression,  no 
matter  by  what  device — the  handkerchief  of  Desdemona,  the 
diamond  necklace  of  Cagliostro — that  a  man  and  woman  prom- 
inent in  public  life  have  become  entangled  in  wrong-doing,  and 
nothing  can  save  them.  It  is  a  curious  but  well-known  fact 
that  the  very  purity  of  women  makes  them  most  suspicious 
where  they  are  purest  ;  and  when  another  woman  excites  this 
distrust,  it  takes  with  fatal  frequency  this  particular  direction. 
The  intestine  feuds  which  rent  twenty  years  ago,  the  Woman 
Suffrage  movement,  gave  striking  illustration  of  the  tendency 
of  this  form  of  suspicion,  as  could  easily  be  shown  by  in- 
stances, were  it  well  to  rekindle  those  slumbering  embers." 


296         The  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War. 

AVho  never  doubted,  never  thought — 

In  conscientious  doubt  is  power, 
From  this  the  greatest  things  are  wrought ; 

'T  is  to  th'  soul  as  perfume  to  the  flower. 
Great  men  are  numbered  by  no  year — 

The  life  of  each  immortal  name 
Is  in  the  thought-prints  which  appear 

Along  the  skyey  heights  of  fame. 
That  I  might  tread  the  Milky-Way  ; 

Forever  wander  'mid  the  stars, 
I  then  perchance  might  find  some  day, 

A  key  to  ope  the  gate  that  bars 
The  way  to  highest,  pure,  clear  light, 
Above  earth's  long  and  sombre  night. 
Like  moonlight  on  the  breast  of  night. 
Sweet  dreaming  of  God's  Heaven-lived  light, 
So  lovely  slept  sweet  Ethel  fair, 
On  bosom  of  her  lover  there. 
Like  twilight  o'er  a  sinless  world 
Her  silken  hair  o'er  bosom  curled  ; 
But  when  they  passed  a  holy  grail. 
With  water  filled  from  Heaven's  sweet  vale, 
'T  would  seem  some  sprinkled  Ethel's  face  ; 
She  woke  to  feel  her  love's  embrace. 
Hear  th'  tolling  of  the  vesper  bells 
Which  from  cathedral  sweetly  swells. 
"  Thou  hast  awoke  to  give  me  bliss. 

Dear  Ethel  !   Oh,  thy  charms  inspire  ! 
I  feel  immortal  when  thy  kiss 

Sinks  deep  into  my  soul  of  fire  ! 


An  Historical  Epic  Poem.  297 

What  cannot  love,  forsooth,  effect  ? 

It  drew  Diana  from  the  spheres  ; 
Mount  Ida's  youth  it  did  elect ; 

It  holds  the  rein  o'er  endless  years." 
Low,  soft,  yet  audible  and  sweet, 

To  him  and  Heaven  she  breathed  his  name — 
Her  velvet  voice  his  ears  do  greet 

As  if  from  Aidenn's  heights  it  came. 
'  Dear  Claude  !    "  she  whispered,  "  thou  art  fair  I  " 

And  heaved  a  plaintive,  ardent  sigh — 
"  I  love  to  breathe  the  virgin  air 
And  hear  the  happy  birds  sing  nigh. 
These  hours  are  sweet— these  hours  are  given. 
Love-flowers  God  hands  to  me  from  Heaven." 
Lo  !  there  in  beauty  'neath  the  skies. 
Broad  Kansas  prairies  meet  their  eyes  ! 
The  lovely  home  of  Claude  Lorraine 
Is  shadowed  on  the  endless  plain. 


298  The  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War. 


CANTO  X. 

BATTLE    OF    WESTPORT. 

A   LL  summer  Price  had  forced  his  way, 
^^^     With  his  fierce  army  of  the  Gray 
Toward  North  and  distant  setting  sun, 
While  Curtis,  Blunt,  and  Pleasonton 
Disputed  every  foot  he  stepped. 
With  Kansas  men  who  never  slept 
So  sound  but  they  remembered  well 
The  foes  that  came  so  fierce  and  fell. 
Many  a  man  of  Kansas  soil 
Had  shouldered  arms  the  foe  to  foil  ; 
They  swarmed  on  prairie,  hill,  and  glen, 
To  full  three  times  ten  thousand  men — 
Men  who  were  fighting  for  their  all  ; 
And  the  invaders  to  the  wall 
They  swore  to  drive — fierce  hurl  them  back- 
As  swift  as  cyclones  forests  rack. 
Price  fiercely  fought  to  Westport — there 
Looked  longingly  to  Kansas,  where 
He  saw  afar  more  spoils  and  fame. 
And  thought  to  win  a  brighter  name. 
But  this  he  found  a  -task  full  sore — 

That  fame  was  his,  ah  !  nevermore  ! 
****** 

October  claims  of  time  a  share — 


A  n  Historical  Epic  Poem.  299 

'T  is  Sabbath  morn  !     Day's  dawn  is  fair  ; 
*T  is  eighteen  hundred  and  sixty-four, 
And  into  Kansas  cross,  Price  swore 
He  would  that  day,  the  twenty-third. 
Hark  !  voice  of  coming  battle  's  heard  ! 
The  bugle  now  awakes  the  air, 
Breathing  sad  tones  of  beauty  there. 
The  sullen  tread  of  hosts  is  heard, 
And  neigh  of  war-horse  fierce  ;  the  word 
Of  stern  command.     All  now  is  still. 
The  wind  is  lull'd  from  hill  to  hill. 
All  suddenly  red  flames  burst  out 

From  cannon  on  a  breastwork  high. 
Behind  which  lay  the  Rebel  rout  : 

And  iron  balls  scream  down  the  sky, 
And  bombshells  burst  before,  behind. 
While  Death  and  Ruin  ride  the  wind  ; 
Swift  carbine  bullets  shrilly  sing  ; 
Dread  notes  of  death,  earth,  heaven,  ring  ! 
Th'  Federals  pour  their  swift  replies. 
War's  thunder  mounting  to  the  skies. 
Many  a  strong  and  mighty  man 
Falls  dead,  falls  dying,  spent  and  wan. 
The  breastworks  topple,  tremble,  fall, 
Before  shot,  shell,  and  cannon-ball  ; 
Down  on  each  other  rush  fierce  foes, 
And  dark  in  deadly  combat  close  ! 
They  close  in  sable  clouds  of  smoke  : 
A  yell  bursts  out  which  Sol  awoke  ; 
For  instantly  his  heavy  head 
Uprises  from  his  Orient  bed. 


300         The  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War. 

And  'midst  the  roar  and  thunder  dread 

The  battle-shaken  hills  do  groan  ; 
A  thousand  ghosts  of  fallen  dead 

Shriek  madly  to  their  God  Unknown  I 
The  battle  thickens  in  the  van, 

The  awful  revelry  of  death 
Would  melt  the  hardest  heart  of  man  ; 

Would  make  him  catch  his  faltering  breath. 
The  fight  goes  on — more  fearful  grows  ; 

Dun  clouds  of  battle  black  the  air  ; 
The  shrieks,  the  groans,  'midst  dying  woes 

Are  mingled  in  war's  dread  despair. 
The  battle  roars  like  to  the  blast 

That  drives  the  forest  from  the  shore  ; 
And  thunders  like  the  storm  that  vast 

Sweeps  Hell's  great  dreary  regions  o'er. 
****** 
Day  wanes,  the  battle  's  o'er,  and  Price, 

Defeated,  leaves  the  foughten  field. 
The  dead  are  heaped  and  cold  as  ice. 

And  they  increase  as  the  dying  yield. 
The  warriors  comfort  as  they  can, 
And  cheer  each  dire  afflicted  man 
By  some  kind  act  or  promise  given. 
Which  smooths  his  way,  we  trust,  to  Heaven. 
I  sympathize  with  those  who  fall 
Down  stricken  by  the  deadly  ball. 
For  I  have  felt  the  cruel  thing 
Tear  through  my  flesh  with  angry  sting. 
War  is  the  worst  curse  of  all  time. 
Against  both  God  and  man  a  crime. 


An  Historical  Epic  Poem,  301 

Here  lay  the  bleeding  trooper  dying, 

And  there  the  cause — a  broken  shell  ; 
And,  powder-burnt,  his  steed  is  flying 

Swift  from  the  sight  of  Death's  foul  spell. 
Each  bird  has  flown,  from  awe  is  still  ; 
The  wolf,  in  fear,  howls  from  the  hill. 
The  prairie-dog  barks  fierce  and  wild 
Before  his  earth-house  door  defiled  ; 
While  his  household  of  snakes  and  owls 
Beneath  are  listening  to  his  howls. 
Night  thickens  !  wolf  and  dog  are  still. 
And  silence  broods  o'er  plain  and  hill  ! 
Still  !     All  is  still  since  battle-blast. 
Save  when  some  new-born  phantom  passed  ; 
Lost  !  shrieking  for  some  beacon  light 
To  guide  it  through  the  starless  night. 
Men  died  so  dreadful  on  that  day, 
Some  of  the  souls  that  fled  away. 
Not  said  in  vain,  of  flesh  bereft. 
Were  stained  with  blood  of  corses  left  ! 

****** 
O  Muse  !  we  now  must  here  recite 

The  valor  in  each  army  there, 
The  brows  of  those  who  led  the  fight 

Deserve  the  crown  of  laurels  fair  ; 
So  does  each  private  soldier  too. 
Whether  he  wore  the  gray  or  blue. 
We  should  not  men  in  haste  condemn, 

For  they  and  we  may  each  be  right — 
As  life's  environment  doth  hem, 

We  see  the  truth  by  different  light. 


302  The  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War. 

Grant  fought  the  Union  to  restore, 

For  State  rights  Cockrell  fought  his  part — 

Each  saw  the  star  of  truth  before, 
Which  shed  a  radiance  o'er  the  heart. 

The  Rebels  thirty  thousand  strong, 

Their  foes  wellnigh  as  numerous  throng. 

McNeil,  the  dauntless,  showed  his  skill 

In  war,  and  showed  it  with  a  will. 

Here  Jennison  and  Ford  restore 

The  scenes  that  marked  their  paths  of  yore. 

With  his  brigade,  Moonlight,'  the  brave, 

To  Price  defeat  his  prowess  gave, 

Two  days  before  that  Rebel  crew 

He  fought  upon  the  Little  Blue. 

And  Hinton  "^  proved  a  patriot  here, 

A  soldier  without  fault  or  fear. 

The  militia  under  Blair's '  command 

Sad  havoc  wrought  on  every  hand. 

Here  Simpson  *  and  his  cavalry  tell 

In  prowess  where  the  foemen  fell. 

Here  Walker  ^  his  front  ranks  did  lead, 

Astride  of  his  uncertain  steed. 

^  Gen.  Thomas  Moonlight,  present  Governor  of  Wyoming. 

2  R.  J.  Hinton,  author  of  the  "  History  of  the  Army  of  the 
Border. " 

^  Gen.  Charles  W.  Blair,  of  Leavenworth. 

^  B.  F.  Simpson,  late  U.  S.  Marshal. 

^  Col.  Sam.  Walker,  of  Lawrence,  whose  steed  had  the  dis- 
agreeable habit  of  going  over  to  the  enemy's  lines  duiing  bat- 
tle, a  habit  which  had  caused  the  death  of  several  of  its 
owners. 


An  Historical  Epic  Poem,  303 

Here  fought  one  Boone,  the  grandson  bold 

Of  Kentucky's  mighty  hunter  old. 

The  Shawnee  County  Regiment 

Fought  like  veterans  of  the  tent. 

Of  men  of  war,  whom  war  called  there,- 

Topeka  '  proudly  claims  a  share. 

The  valiant  Bonebrake,  Case,  and  Burns, 

Veale,  Brockway,  Williams,  Huntoon  there, 
Smith,  Douthitt,  each  his  laurel  earns — 

Which  e'er  should  shine  in  poesy  fair. 
Here  Major  Ross  "^  and  his  true  men 
In  marshalled  ranks  crossed  hill  and  glen. 
'Mid  thickest  of  the  fearful  fight 
The  Major  spurred  his  steed  of  night  ; 
Nor  cringed  he  'neath  the  battle  cloud, 
His  arm  too  good,  his  heart  too  proud. 
Here  Hoyt,  the  hero  of  the  Blue,  ' 
Fought  brave  and  well  the  battle  through. 
Joe  Shelby  and  his  cavalcade, 
Of  Death  proved  they  were  not  afraid  ; 
They  'd  seldom  heard  a  milder  note 
Than  came  from  out  war's  dreaded  throat. 

^  P.  I.  Bonebrake,  Ross  Burns,  A.  H.  Case,  Judge  David 
Brockway,  Arch.  Williams,  Dr.  A.  J.  Huntoon,  Jacob  Smith, 
W.  P.  Douthitt,  and  Col.  Geo.  W.  Veale,  all  citizens  of  Topeka. 

^  Ex-Senator  E.  G.  Ross,  Governor  of  New  Mexico. 

3  In  the  tight  at  the  Blue,  Col.  Hoyt,  with  a  portion  of  the 
Fifteenth  Kansas  regiment,  made  "  one  of  the  most  gallant 
sabre  charges  recorded  in  the  history  of  the  war." — O.  H. 
Gregg's  "  History  of  Johnson  County,  Kansas." 


304         The  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War, 

Here  Colonel  Moore  ^  and  valiant  band 

Fought  under  Shelby's  fierce  command. 

Here  Edwards  ^  did  both  armies  show 

He  was  the  Federals'  bitter  foe. 

Though  now  he  wields  the  mighty  pen, 

The  bickering  blade  he  wielded  then  ; 

His  men  were  brave  as  brave  could  be, 

They  fought  and  they  died  recklessly. 

'T  was  here  Todd,  the  guerrilla,  fell, 

A  reckless,  daring  child  of  Hell, 

To  whom  peace  seemed  a  waste  of  time, 

Who  gloried  in  the  hour  of  crime. 

Here  Marmaduke  his  forces  led 

With  pomp  of  war,  amid  the  dead. 

Here  Fagan,  Cabel,  Gordon,  too. 

And  Jackman,  Thompson — leaders  true 

Unto  the  Southern  cause — command 

For  Price  troops  fighting  on  each  hand. 

And  more  were  they  that  battled  well, 

Whose  names  no  mortal  tongue  can  tell — 

Hurled  from  the  earth  by  war's  great  crime, 

Oblivion  long  hath  veiled  from  time. 

The  deeds  of  valor  on  the  day 

Of  Westport's  battle,  Westport  famed — 

As  Bunker  Hill  is  famed  for  aye, 

As  Lexington  's  immortal  named. 

*  *  *  *  *  * 

Ah,  Price  !  thou  wrought  thine  own  defeat, 

^  Col.  John  C.  Moore,  the  well-known  journalist  and  lec- 
turer. 

'■^  Major  John  N.  Edwards,  the  able  writer,  now  editor  of 
the  Kansas  City  Tiines. 


An  Historical  Epic  Poem.  305 

When  thou  offended  thy  great  power, 

Who  best  knew  war's  black  art — 't  was  meet 

Quantrell  had  been  with  thee  this  hour. 
****** 

The  storm  of  war  has  blown  afar, 
The  star  of  peace  shines  o'er  the  field, 
Transmuted  swords  to  ploughshares  are — 
To  break  the  sod  and  bread  to  yield. 


EXTRACTS    FROM    COMMENTS    OF    THE    PRESS 
ON    "  POEMS   OF    THE   PLAINS." 


From  the  "London  (Eng.)  Literary  World." 
We  next  come  to  three  American  bards  ;  and  first,  of 
Thomas  Brower  Peacock,  the  poet  of  the  Wild  West.  "  Buf- 
falo Bill  "  had  not  yet  appeared  at  Earl's-court  when  Mr. 
Peacock's  modem  epic,  "  The  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War," 
appeared,  and  won  praise  from  critics  so  hard  to  please  as 
Matthew  Arnold.  With  all  its  defects  of  form,  it  is  the  work 
of  a  poet,  and  "  Wild  Bill,"  "  Buffalo  Bill,"  and  their  com- 
panions find  in  him  a  vates  sacer  whom  more  distinguished 
warriors  might  envy  them.  "  The  Rhyme  "  is  reprinted  in 
the  present  volume,  but  the  main  bulk  of  it  consists  of 
miscellaneous  poems,  some  new  and  some  not,  which  are 
grouped  together  under  the  title  of  "  Poems  of  the  Plains." 
Though  at  times  unconventional,  Mr.  Peacock  is  always 
worth  reading,  and  much  of  his  verse  is  full  of  fresh  and 
vigorous  feeling. 

From  the  "Christian  Union,"  New  York. 
In  Mr.  Thomas  Brower  Peacock's  "  Poems  of  the  Plains," 
we  meet  with  most  decided  poetic  talent."  "  The  Rhyme  of 
the  Border  War  "  gave  Mr.  Peacock  the  right  to  be  called  a 
poet.  There  is  a  strength,  a  vigor,  a  sweep  of  mental  vision 
in  these  poems  which  incontestably  show  an  insight  into  the 
realities,  a  faculty  which  is  never  absent  from  true  poetry. 

From   John   Burroughs. 
Of   the  trans-Mississippi   poets    Thomas  Brower  Peacock 
easily  leads  them  all. 

307 


3o8  Comments,  Criticisms,  Etc. 

From   Edgar   Fawcett. 
Mr.  Peacock  displays  earnestness  and  a  national  spirit  in 
his  work,  "  Poems  of  the  Plains  and  Songs  of  the  Solitudes." 
His  longer  poems  have  evidently  been  labors  of  love. 

From  Gertrude  Garrison,  IxN  the  (N.  Y.)  "  Journalist." 
"  Poems  of  the  Plains  and  Songs  of  the  Solitudes  "  is  the 
title  of  a  handsome  volume  of  poems  by  Thomas  Brower 
Peacock,  of  Topeka,  Kansas,  who  is  known  as  the  Kansas 
poet.  .  .  .  The  author  has  acquired  some  fame  by  his 
"  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War,"  "The  Vendetta,"  and  other 
poems  previously  published.  His  themes  are  stirring  Western 
ones.  Red  men,  wild  riders,  brave  men,  and  fair  beauties  of 
the  pioneer  days  are  thrown  together  with  much  poetic  fire 
and  fine  imagery.  Mr.  Peacock  lacks  nothing  in  poetic 
feeling  and  refinement  of  thought. 

From  Francis  Parkman. 
His  poems  show  feeling,  spirit,  and  a  good  deal  of  force. 

From  the  "  St.  Johns  Globe,"  New  Brunswick. 
The  poems  contained  in  this  volume  are  of  an  original 
order  of  genius,  and  are  marked  by  a  strong,  fiery,  vigorous 
treatment — a  breath  from  the  plains  they  so  vividly  and  in 
such  a  picturesque  manner  portray.  Mr.  Peacock  fulfills  the 
conditions  necessary  to  a  correct  carrying  out  of  the  ideas 
popularly  entertained  as  to  what  a  poet  is,  inasmuch  as  he  is 
preeminently  imaginative,  a  dreamer  of  dreams,  a  creator  of 
pictures.  With  the  exception  of  Bret  Harte  and  Joaquin 
Miller,  there  are  no  other  poets  who  bring  out,  as  does  Mr. 
Peacock,  the  strange  beauty,  the  richness,  and  the  pathos  of 
Western  life. 

From    the    "People    and    Patriot,"    Concord,    New 
Hampshire. 
The  "  Songs  of  the  Solitudes  "  are  esteemed  by  many  to  be 
fully  as  meritorious  as  the  "  Songs  of  the  Sierras."     The  new 


Comments,  Criticisms,  Etc,  309 

poems  cover  a  large  variety  of  subjects,  secular  and  religious, 
love  and  war,  real  and  idealistic,  and  evince  the  true  poetic 
spirit. 

From  "  The  Literary  World,"  Boston,  Mass. 
It  is  impossible  to  read  "  The  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War," 
and  not  to  recognize  that  the  author  has  got  hold  of  his 
theme  in  a  very  resolute  manner.  If  some  of  Mr.  Peacock's 
contemporaries  could  acquire  a  little  of  his  exuberance,  the 
field  of  current  verse,  while  possibly  more  than  ever  like  an 
unweeded  garden,  surely  would  not  be  so  stale,  flat,  and  un- 
profitable as  it  is  now. 

From  the  "  New  York  Nation." 
The  late  Matthew  Arnold  is  mentioned  in  the  Appendix  as 
one  who  thought  well  of  the  work,  and  found  in  it,  apparently, 
those  qualities  of  distinction  and  interest  which  he  declined 
to  recognize  in  Emerson  and  others. 

From  Oscar  Wilde. 
Mr.  Peacock  certainly  writes  with  great  vigor,  freedom  and 
enthusiasm,  and  these  are  admirable  things. 

From  the  "  St.  Louis  Republic." 
Mr.  Peacock  has  quite  a  reputation  as  a  poet  in  the  Far 
West.     He  is  a  Kansan — in  fact  the  poet-leaureate  of  that 
new  and  progressive  State, 

From  the  "  Worcester  (Mass.)  Spy," 
Mr.  Peacock  is  a  young  man,  resident  of  Topeka,  Kansas, 
and  has  won  already  high  reputation  as  possessing  poetic 
power  and  a  gift  for  melody  and  versification.  Several  of 
the  poems  in  this  volume  are  narratives  of  considerable 
length,  and  one  of  them,  "  The  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War," 
will  be  found  of  historic,  as  well  as  poetic  value,  Scott's 
poems  are  evidently  his  guide,  in  some  measure,  in  form  and 
style  of  treatment. 


3IO  Comments y  Criticisms,  Etc. 

From  the  "  Boston  Times." 
Mr.  Peacock  is  a  Western  poet,  and  displays  high  claim  to 
distinction.  His  poems  are  full  of  imagination,  picturesque- 
ness,  and  freedom  of  strength  that  make  them  often  exhila- 
rating. This  volume  contains  numerous  beautiful  thoughts 
expressed  with  striking  force,  and  will  afford  rare  pleasure  to 
many.  The  true  merit  of  the  poet  has  won  golden  opinions 
from  the  most  eminent  critics,  and  this  inherent  worth  will 
create  still  further  appreciation  from  future  readers. 

From  the  "Chicago  Inter  Ocean." 
Messrs.  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons  have  issued  a  new  and  revised 
edition  of  the  poems  of  Thomas  Brower  Peacock,  the  Kansas 
poet.  The  longest  and  best  poem  of  the  volume  is  "  The 
Rhyme  of  the  Border  War,"  in  ten  cantos.  It  is  a  poem  of 
great  strength,  and  one  of  the  best  war  poems  ever  written. 
The  historian  of  that  wonderful  period  has  at  no  time 
gathered  so  many  facts  in  the  same  space,  or  caught  more  cer- 
tainly the  spirit  of  its  actors,  than  has  Mr.  Peacock. 

From  THE  "  Christian  Advocate,"  Pittsburgh,  Pa. 

Mr.  Peacock  seems  to  be,  in  his  poetry,  just  what  the  really 
great  poet  of  America  should  be,  i.  e.,  truly  and  exclusively 
American.  Our  glory  lies  in  our  individuality.  Mr.  Peacock 
is  American  to  the  core,  and  he  is  one,  possibly  the  best,  of 
the  few  American  poets  treading  paths  which  he  himself 
must  pioneer. 

From  the  "  Leader,"  Cleveland,  Ohio. 
The  scope  of  his  imagination  is  surprising,  and  his  lofty 
spirit  appears  to  have  been  bom  amid  the  scenes  of  nature's 
grandeur,  and  upheld  by  a  desire  to  sing  their  greatness.  .  .  . 
The  narrative  poems  will  no  doubt  be  read  with  pleasure  for 
their  exciting  interest. 

From  the  "  Cincinnati  Christian  Advocate." 
We  occasionally  pick  up   a  volume  of  genuine  poetry,  or 


Comments^  Criticisms,  Etc.  311 

one  in  which  the  true  spirit  of  poesy  is  interfused  through  all. 
Such  a  volume  is  "  Poems  of  the  Plains  and  Songs  of  the 
Solitudes,"  together  with  "  The  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War," 
by  Thomas  Brower  Peacock. 

From  the  "  Toledo  Blade." 

From  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons  comes  "  Poems  of  the  Plains 
and  Songs  of  the  Solitudes,"  by  Thomas  Brower  Peacock, 
appearing  now  as  a  new  and  revised  edition,  showing  that  it 
has  already  obtained  popularity.  Some  idea  of  his  especial 
gifts  of  expression  may  be  seen  from  the  following  lines 
culled  from  different  poems  : 

' '  The  dew-drop  on  yon  fragrant  flower 
May  be  the  tear  of  some  sweet  star, 
That  weeps  for  joy  that  God's  great  power 
Shields  all  creation  near  and  far." 

"  Battle  stamps  his  bloody  feet  !  " 

"  God  secretes  in  places  lone  and  still 
The  rarest  products  of  His  will ; 
For  contact  with  the  world  disarms 
His  fairest  flowers  of  half  their  charms." 

From  the  "Journal,"  Indianapolis,  Ind. 

The  poems  vary  in  length  from  a  few  stanzas  to  many 
pages,  and  cover  a  wide  range  of  thought  and  feeling.  Some 
of  the  themes  are  essentially  American  and  Western,  and  are 
handled  in  strong,  original  style.  The  book  contains  some 
striking  passages. 

From  the  "  Chicago  Standard." 

His  lines  have  great  vigor,  while  evidences  are  abundant 
of  a  fertile  imagination  and  a  power  of  poetic  expression 
which  go  far  to  justify  much  that  has  been  said  in  his 
praise. 


312  Comments^  Criticisms^  Etc. 

From  "Zion's  Herald,"  Boston. 
The  West  has  been  too  much  absorbed  in  the  spread  of 
civilization,  and  in  the  accumulation  of  money,  to  inspire  and 
foster  the  poetic  muse.  Even  genius  must  be  properly 
housed,  else  it  will  not  thrive.  The  muse  of  poetry  has  not, 
therefore,  been  awakened  to  best  work  in  our  great  West. 
Joaquin  Miller  and  Bret  Harte  have  possessed  this  limitless 
field.  In  this  volume  a  new  aspirant  appears  to  us.  He 
comes,  however,  with  golden  opinions  for  fugitive  poems 
from  Matthew  Arnold,  Victor  Hugo,  Bayard  Taylor,  Ray 
Palmer,  and  many  others. 

From  the  "  Baltimore  American." 
Mr.  Peacock  has  already  acquired  quite  a  reputation  as  a 
writer  of  verse,  and  this  "  Poems  of  the  Plains  and  Songs  of 
the  Solitudes  "  will  in  no  wise  lessen  it.  Many  of  the  de- 
scriptions of  scenery  are  finely  conceived  and  delicately  por- 
trayed, and  there  is  a  vein  of  romantic  pathos  permeating  the 
entire  collection,  which  makes  it  doubly  charming. 

From  the  "  Baltimore  Sun." 
His   imagination   is   as    exuberant   and   boundless   as   his 
native  prairies. 

From  the  "  American  Magazine." 
Mr.  Peacock  has  the   not  very  general  quality  of  having 
something  to  say  in  his  poetry,  and  of  saying  it. 

From  the  "Boston  Post." 
His  style  is  formed  on  Byron.  It  seems  marvellous  to  find 
here,  out  on  the  Western  plains,  two  long  tales  of  Oriental 
adventure.  .  .  .  The  really  singular  poem,  however,  is 
American  in  subject,  and  is  nothing  less  than  an  historical 
epic  of  which  the  hero  is  the  guerrilla,  Quantrell,  and  in  which 
Buffalo  Bill  is  a  leading  subaltern.  Local  history  is  put  under 
contribution  for  it  so  directly  that  one  might  call  it  a  jour- 
nalistic epic.     These   three  hundred   pages  are  not  without 


Comments,  Criticisms,  Etc,  313 

fire  and  a  certain  rendering  of  the  tumult  and  spirit  of  bat- 
tles on  horseback  with  the  pistol  and  rifle. 

From  the  "  Pittsburgh  (Pa.)  Post." 
He  had  the  good  fortune  to  win  the  notice  of  Victor  Hugo 
and  Matthew  Arnold.  So  much  for  the  poet.  Mr.  Peacock 
has  unquestionably  the  poetic  gift.  He  is  unconventional  ; 
has  the  freedom  of  the  Wild  West,  and  his  poems  are  exuber- 
antly American. 

From  the  "Transcript,"  Portland,  Me. 
The  poem  that  has  attracted  the  most  attention  and  won 
the  highest  praise  is  "  The  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War,"  which 
contains  many  fine  passages  of  descriptive  scenery  and  por- 
trays the  characters  that  figured  in  the  troublous  times  of 
the  early  settlement  of  Kansas,  and  the  days  of  Quantrell. 

From  the  "  New  Orleans  States." 
Peacock's  reputation  has  been  established  for  a  number  of 
years  as  the  laureate  of  the  Western  States,  his  "  Rhyme  of 
the  Border  War,"  first  published  nine  or  ten  years  ago,  having 
beyond  a  peradventure  secured  his  claim  to  that  appellation. 
That  splendid  epic,  which  celebrates  the  doughty  deeds  of 
the  famous  guerrilla  warrior,  William  Clark  Quantrell,  and 
which  in  many  of  its  dashing  passages  falls  no  whit  behind 
the  elan  of  Scott's  "  Marmion,"  is  included  in  the  present 
volume,  with  many  others  of  the  author's  select  poems,  written 
— some  very  early,  some  later  in  his  lifetime.  The  charac- 
teristic charm  of  Peacock's  poetry  is  its  absolute  immunity 
from  any  taint  of  staginess  ;  his  freedom  from  the  trammels 
of  regulation  laid  down  by  this  or  that  school  of  poetry  is 
the  freedom  of  the  deer  in  the  forest,  of  the  lark  in  the 
empyrean. 

From  the  "Philadelphia  Press." 
Mr.  Thomas  Brower  Peacock  publishes  a  fresh  edidon  of 
his  collected   "  Poems  of  the  Plains  and  Songs  of  the  Soli- 


314  Comments,  Criticisms,  Etc. 

tudes  "  (New  York  :  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons).  The  remarkable 
"  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War,"  an  epic  of  the  Kansas-Missouri 
guerrilla  war,  in  which  Quantrell  is  compared  with  Satan,  is 
also  included  in  the  volume.  Mr.  Peacock  is  the  talented 
Kansas  gentleman  of  whom  Oscar  Wilde  wrote  :  "  Topeka 
has  a  poet  which  seems  to  me  a  feather,  perhaps  I  may  call  it 
a  Peacock's  feather,  in  the  city's  cap." 

From  the  "  Presbyterian  Banner,"  PrrTSBURGH,  Pa. 

There  can  be  but  one  opinion  as  to  the  author's  themes  of 
romance  and  song  being  almost  exclusively  American.  No 
other  country  could  produce  such  originals  as  Kit  Carson, 
Buffalo  Bill,  or  such  a  hero  for  an  epic  poem  as  Quantrell, 
the  Guerrilla. 

From  THE  "Chicago  Journal  of  Industrial  Education," 
Many  of  the  poems  are  illustrations  of  border  life  and  his- 
tory, and  breathe  the  genuine  spirit  of  the  West.  Strong, 
free,  untrammelled,  with  many  an  outburst  of  poetic  warmth 
and  vigor. 

From  "  The  Post,"  Washington,  D.  C. 
Mr.  Peacock  has   a  healthy,  virile  imagination,   good  de- 
scriptive powers,  and  a  happy  command  of  language.     Some 
of  his  poems  will  live 

From  the  "  Lewiston  (Maine)  Journal." 
His  poems   show  a  true   appreciation  of   nature,   and  his 
thoughts  find  expression  in  words  evidencing  poetic  power. 

From  the  "  Post-Express,"  Rochester,  N.  Y. 
The  author  has  both  imagination  and  strong  poetic  feeling. 

From  the   "Burlington    Hawk-Eye." 
A  splendid  volume  of  virile  verse  comes  from  the  pen  of 
the  poet  of  sunny  Kansas.     Breathing  the  bracing  air  of  the 
plain,  this  poetry  seems  instinct  with  its  myriad  voices.   .  .   . 


Comments,  Criticisms,  Etc.  315 

The  most  noted  poems  in  this  book  are  "  The  Vendetta " 
and  "  The  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War."  The  latter  is  a  stir- 
ring historical  epic,  which  has  already  brought  its  gifted 
author  much  fame. 

From  the  "Salt  Lake  Tribune." 
The  author  of  this  book  is  still  a  young  man,  but  he  has 
received  most  flattering  encouragement  and  praise  from  some 
of  the  foremost  men  and  journals  of  the  age.  There  is  much 
of  the  nature  of  the  poet  in  the  author  of  this  book.  Much 
within  the  book  is  most  commendable. 

From  the   "Albany  (N.  Y.)  Argus." 

That  he  is  a  writer  of  merit  cannot  be  denied,  for  he  has 

won  golden  opinions  from  many  of  the  most  eminent  critics. 

While  the  author's  latest  poems  are    unquestionably 

his  best,  his  earlier  ones  deserve  the  commendation  they  have 

received. 

From  the  "  Boston  Globe." 
It  may  be  said  that    no    one  can  dispute  Mr.   Peacock's 
claim  to  be  a  poet.     There  are  passages  and  ideas  which  go 
far  to  sustain  his  claim. 

From  the  "Philadelphia  Telegraph." 
"  The  Kansas  Indian's  Lament ''  and  "  The  Doomed  Ship 
Atlantic  "  are  good  examples  of  Mr.  Peacock's  gifts.     He  is 
best  in  descriptive  and  narrative  pieces. 

From  the  New  York  •'  Christian  Intelligencer." 
The  author  is  richly   endowed  with  poetic  talent,  and  is 
making  good  use  of  it. 

From  the  New  Orleans  "Times-Democrat." 
He  has  been  fortunate  in  attracting  the  attention  of  and 
winning   golden    opinions    from  some  of   the  most   eminent 
literary  judges  of  Europe  and  America. 


3l6  Comments,  Criticisms,  Etc. 

From  the  "Chicago  Advance." 
In  a  volume  entitled  "  Poems  of  the  Plains,"  Mr.  Thomas 
Brower  Peacock  has  gathered  a  large  number  of  poems,  the 
most  important  of  which  is  ' '  The  Rhyme  of  the  Border 
War,"  in  which  the  historic  struggles  connected  with  the 
early  settlement  of  Kansas  are  portrayed  with  much  spirit 
and  vividness.  .  .  .  He  seems  to  be  always  real  and  sincere, 
and  does  not  affect  impossible  emotions,  or  attempt  to  "  woo 
the  muses  "  or  revive  the  dead  paganism  of  old  Greece.  He 
is  honestly  American  and  himself. 

From  the  "Grand  Rapids  Eagle." 
In    describing    the  scene    of   the   battle,   Canto  V,    "  The 
Rhyme  of   the  Border  War,"  the   poet  reaches  one  of   the 
grandest  passages  written  by  American  poets. 

From  the  "Nashville  Democrat." 
The  book,    "Poems  of   the    Plains,"   contains    some  real 
gems  in  both  melody  and  verse. 

From    the    Pittsburgh  (Pa.)   "Chronicle    and   Tele- 
graph." 

"The  Kansas  poet"  brings  out  in  a  new  edition  his 
"Poems  of  the  Plains,"  and  joins  with  it  in  a  handsome 
volume  his  two  previous  works.  These  poems  have  attracted 
a  good  deal  of  attention,  aroused  some  criticism  of  an  un- 
friendly nature,  and  received  a  considerable  amount  of  praise. 
The  portrait  of  the  author  is  handsomely  engraved  upon  the 
first  page  of  the  book,  and  a  critical  preface  by  Thomas 
Danleigh  Suplee  follows.  Then  come  the  poems.  There 
are  a  great  many  of  them  and  they  are  of  unequal  merit — but 
all  of  them  can  be  read  with  interest,  and  many  of  them  with 
satisfaction. 

From  the  "Milwaukee  (Wisconsin)  Sentinel." 

It  is  sufficient  to  say  of  the  poems  in  this  book,  that  they 
bear  out  the  author's  reputation  as  a  writer  of  imaginative 
and  romantic  verse. 


Comments,  Criticisms,  Etc.  317 

From  the  "Cincinnati  ENQUiREiv.'" 
The  book  possesses  many  merits,  and  there  are  flights  of 
fancy  in  it  which  bespeak  genius  of  an  unusual  order. 

From  the  "  Kansas  City  Times." 
Mr.  Peacock's  poems  are  full  of  fire  and  imagination,  free 
from  the  trimming-down  process  which  gives  smoothly 
rounded  sentences,  and  sickly  sentiment,  from  which  all 
naturalness  has  been  unsparingly  culled.  As  a  true  poet-son 
of  Kansas,  Mr.  Peacock  stands  in  the  lead,  and  if  all  his 
other  work  was  as  naught,  and  he  should  never  again  touch 
his  pen  to  paper  to  inscribe  poetic  measures,  his  name  would 
live  in  his  three  great  poems  :  "  The  Doomed  Ship  Atlantic," 
"  The  Vendetta,"  and  his  "  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War." 

From  the  "Topeka  Capital." 
Mr.  Peacock,  as  is  well  known,  is  the  most  noted  poet  in 
Kansas,  and  his  works  have  attracted  the  attention  of  foreign 
as  well  as  home  critics.  The  thought  expressed  in  Mr.  Pea- 
cock's later  poems  is  more  vigorous,  more  mature,  and  de- 
cidedly better  expressed,  and  at  the  same  time  displays  quite 
as  much  poetic  feeling  as  his  earlier  ones. 

From  the  "  Wichita  (Kansas)  Eagle." 
That  Mr.  Peacock  is  a  poet,  and  a  superior  one,  cannot  be 
doubted.     The  poems  are  pregnant  with  truly  poetic  inspira- 
tion, rich  with  noble  thought,  and  worthy  the  most  flattering 
commendation. 

■  From  the  "  Union,"  Junction  City,  Kansas. 

We  are  gratified  to  know  that  Mr.  Peacock's  literary  repu- 
tation is  expanding  and  attracting  world-wide  fame. 


EXTRACTS     FROM     COMMENTS     OF     EMINENT 

CRITICS,   REVIEWS,  AND  CLIPPINGS  FROM 

THE    PRESS   ON    "  THE    RHYME   OF 

THE   BORDER   WAR." 

Published   1880.     G.  W.   Carleton  &  Co.,  New  York. 


From  Matthew  Arnold. 

He  takes  a  subject  which  interests  him  and  he  treats  it 
with  liveliness  and  vigor. 

From  M.  Victor  Hugo. 

I  am  very  much  pleased  with  Thomas  Brower  Peacock's 
poem,  "  The  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War." 

From  Bayard  Taylor. — Manuscript  sheets — "  The  Rhyme 
of  the  Border  War." 

The  thoughts,  for  the  most  part,  are  grandly  conceived, 
and  there  are  passages  of  the  highest  type  of  poetical  com- 
position, mingled  with  some  which  are  not  so  good, — thoughts 
that  are  sublime  in  their  conception  and  expression.  The 
poem  does  not  lack  true  poetical  spontaneity,  philosophy,  or 
prophecy. 

From  Hugh  Hastings. 

"  The  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War"  is  throughout  a  tale  of 
love  and  strife,  of  consuming  passion,  and  rapid  action.  The 
battle  scenes  are  stirringly  described.  The  work  altogether 
shows  the  poetic  power  of  one  possessed  of  fertile  imagination 
and  true  poetic  fire. 

318 


Comments,  Criticisms,  Etc.  319 

From  Louise  Chandler  Moulton. 
There  is  in  Thomas  Brower  Peacock's  poems  the  breadth 
and  freedom  and  vigor  of  the  West.     They  are  picturesque 
and  heroic.     I  find  them  most  interesting,  full  of  vigorous 
life. 

From  George  Ripley. 
While  the  rhythm  of  Thomas  Brower  Peacock's  poems  could 
be  better*in  places,  the  thoughts  show  a  high  order  of  poetical 
genius. 

From  Ray  Palmer. 
His    poems  clearly  show   that    he  has  naturally  a  liberal 
measure  of  poetic    sensibility,  imagination,   and   fancy,  and 
other  gifts  essential  to  the  poet. 

From  Samuel  S.  Cox,  A,  M.,  M.  C. 
The  poems  of  Thomas  Brower  Peacock  are  always  pleas- 
ing and  sparkling,  and  show  the  true  lyric  style. 

From  "Potter's  American  Monthly." 
Thomas  Brower  Peacock,  known  as  "  The  Kansas  Poet," 
through  his  many  previous  poetical  effusions,  has  well  earned 
the  reputation.  We  find  many  gems  of  poetic  thought  ex- 
pressed in  words  both  chaste  and  select.  In  fine  word-paint- 
ing especially  does  he  show  a  most  gratifying  skill ;  some  of 
his  poetic  imagery  possessing  much  original  and  striking 
beauty.  His  peroration  to  Kansas  is  exceedingly  graphic  and 
fine.  '  His  descriptions  of  the  battles  fought  by  the  bush- 
whackers are  equally  well  and  forcibly  expressed. 

From  the  "  Literary  World,"  Boston,  Massachusetts. 

It  is  a  poem  of  love  and  battle.     There  is  no  lack  of  spirit 
and  fire. 

From  the  "  Philadelphia  Times." 

Thomas  Brower  Peacock  is  regarded  by  the  London   Sat- 
urday  Review  as  the  great  American  poet. 


320  Comments,  Criticisms,  Etc. 

From  George  H.  Picard,  Author  of  "A  Matter  of 
Taste,"  "A  Mission  Flower,"  "  Old  Boniface,"  etc. 
I  give  his  "  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War  "  the  loftiest  place  in 
Western  minstrelsy.  It  is  heroic  in  treatment,  melodious  in 
expression,  and  highly  original  in  its  conception.  His  poetry 
is  far  above  the  puerile  warblings  of  the  average  poet  of  the 
day.  In  many  instances  it  is  sublime.  It  was  a  masterly  con- 
ception to  found  a  long  epic  poem  upon  a  theme  so  deveid  of  all 
that  has  been  regarded  as  picturesque,  as  the  Kansas  troubles. 
To  me  there  is  something  absolutely  thrilling  in  his  descrip- 
tions of  guerrilla  warfare.  I  like  especially  his  spirited  lines 
on  Quantrell. 

From    the  "New  York  Commercial  Advertiser." 

Border  wars  have  ever  been  a  fascinating  theme  with  poets 
of  heroic  bent.  The  freedom  of  life,  the  loneliness  and  loveli- 
ness of  nature,  the  daring  and  danger  of  human  passion,  all 
tend  to  inspire  the  breast  of  one  imbued  with  poetic  senti- 
ment and  vivid  fancy.  Its  author,  a  young  man,  has  the 
spirit  of  poetry  within  him,  and  in  many  passages  sings  with 
ease  and  wealth  of  imagery. 

From  the  "Chicago  Inter-Ocean." 

This  is  a  poem  of  real  merit,  and,  true  to  history,  it  marks 
a  wonderful  era  in  our  time,  and  one  yet  vivid  in  the  minds 
of  thousands  of  living  men  and  women. 

From  the  "Detroit  Free  Press." 

The  poet  has  shown  taste  in  the  choice  of  his  subject, 
and  considerable  skill  in  telling  his  romantic  story. 

From  the  "St.  Louis  Republican." 

The  narrative  generally  runs  smoothly  in  rhyme,  and  there 
are  some  good  strong  lines,  sinewy  with  thought,  and  flashes 
of  poetic  fancy.  He  does  not  waste  many  words  in  metre  and 
rhyme-hunting,  and  scales  the  rough  places  with  a  bound  in- 
stead of  going  a  long  way  round. 


Comments,  Criticisms,  Etc.  321 

From  the  "  St.  Louis  Hornet." 
"The  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War."  This  late  poem  of 
"  the  Kansas  poet"  is  an  epic  of  ten  cantos,  historical  and 
clear-cut,  and  is  very  like  the  "  Vendetta  "  of  the  same  au- 
thor, save  that  there  is  more  power,  greater  girth  of  poetic 
beauty,  more  vivid  pictures,  in  the  last  effort.  Indeed,  a 
marked  superiority  must  be  conceded  to  the  new  poem.  The 
book  is  brimful  of  grand  thoughts,  exquisite  imagery,  pathos 
unsurpassed,  passion  that  stretches  into  the  realm  of  the 
blest,  and  depths  of  grief,  a  broad  theology,  a  boundless  hu- 
manity—all in  the  garniture  of  true  and  superb  poetic  rhet- 
oric. The  picture  of  Ethel  is  one  of  rare  beauty  :  the  genius 
of  the  author  seemingly  revelling  in  the  bright  dream  of  the 
loveliest  type  of  God's  handiwork. 

"  Lovely  as  moonlit  Venice  dreams 
Th'  ages  by,  so  beautiful  she  seems." ' 

And  she  is  not  all  etherial,  for 

"  Her  heart  was  not  a  frozen  lake 

On  whose  cold  brink  fond  Cupid  stands." 

And  more  than  once  : 

"  Beneath  the  moon's  and  stars'  soft  light 
She  'd  heard  the  voices  of  the  night, 
Go  sweetly  laughing  back  to  God." 

These  are  but  fragments  descriptive  of  Ethel,  and  we  un- 
hesitatingly assert  that  there  are  dozens  of  stanzas  in  this 
portion  of  the  book  that  are  gems  of  ideal  poesy,  and  that  lose 
nothing  by  comparison  with  the  ancient  and  modem  poets  in 
this  special  field.  The  following  from  the  battle-field  is  a  bit 
figurative  : 

"  And  'midst  the  roar  and  thunder  dread. 
The  battle-shaken  hills  do  groan, 
A  thousand  ghosts  of  fallen  dead 

Shriek  madly  to  their  God  unknown." 


322  Comments,  Criticisms,  Etc. 

Here  is  a  potent  and  sublime  truth  : 

"  God  secretes  in  places  lone  and  still 
The  rarest  products  of  His  will ; 
For  contact  with  the  world  disarms 
His  fairest  flowers  of  half  their  charms." 

At  times  the  poet  plumes  his  wings  for  flight  into  the  illim- 
itable : 

' '  We  hear — we  of  the  keener  sense. 
Who  list  with  hearts  and  souls  intense, 
The  song  that  's  sung  by  the  Immortals," 
Above  earth's  battlements  and  portals. 

It  is  impossible  to  do  justice,  in  this  brief  critique,  to  the 
book.  Indeed,  we  have  selected  at  random,  almost,  the  few 
lines  above  recited,  but  we  do  not  care  to  say  that  they  are  the 
best.  They  are  not  the  best.  The  volume  is  strewn  thick 
with  pretty  thoughts  and  rounded  into  rich  rare  music,  by  the 
subtle  brain  and  pen  of  this  young  and  gifted  poetic  dreamer 
of  the  Far  West. 

From  Enrique  Parmer,  author  of  "Maple  Hall  Mys- 
tery,"  ETC.,  ETC. 

"  The  Rhyme  of  the  Border  War."  The  poem,  from  first 
to  last,  binds  us  as  with  a  spell,  and  we  read  with  rapt  attention 
to  the  end  of  the  last  canto.  The  subject  is  one  of  vast  in- 
terest, for  it  embraces  a  period  in  the  history  of  American 
politics  that  will  ever  be  fresh  and  vivid  in  the  memory  of 
men.  It  is  a  fine  effusion,  masterly  in  itself.  It  is  not  only 
the  earnest  of  nobler  creations — it  is  a  living,  palpable  crea- 
tion itself. 

We  cannot,  with  our  brief  space,  speak  of  the  plot,  the 
history,  or  lay  open  the  characters  that  figure  in  the  poem  ; 
we  must  content  ourselves  with  what  we  have  written — not 
forgetting  to  say  that  the  author  of  "  The  Rhyme  "  must,  some 
day,  attain  a  legitimate  place  among  the  brilliant  stars  that 
deck  the  poetic  sky  in  the  Western  Hemisphere. 


Comments,  Criticisms,  Etc.  323 

From  the  "  Kansas  City  Times." 

Thomas  Brower  Peacock  has  won  golden  opinions  from 
critics  of  high  standing,  A  year  ago  he  published  a  volume  of 
poems,  but  since  that  time  has  attended  more  strictly  to 
business  of  a  more  prosaic  nature,  but  no  doubt  the  while 
revelling  in  a  poet's  world,  his  fancies  and  thoughts  uncon- 
sciously weaving  themselves  daily  into  beautiful  verse.  Every 
young  aspirant  in  the  field  of  poetry  thinks  he  must  be  either 
sad,  sour,  or  wicked,  like  Byron,  Shelley,  and  Poe  ;  but  Mr. 
Peacock  has  not  seen  fit,  because  he  has  poetic  inspiration,  to 
affect  what  he  is  not.  His  poetry  is  of  a  healthy,  elevated 
character,  and  no  taint  of  the  fleshy  school,  no  sensualism. 
He,  like  many  of  us,  ponders  on  the  question  of  life,  as  these 
lines  prove  : 

"  O  what  is  life  to  man  ?  and  what  is  man  ? 

Immortal  ?  or  the  mere  shadow  of  an  hour  ? 
Is  earth  all  ?  or  has  life  a  broader  span. 

Beyond  time  reaching  with  eternal  power  ? 
The  star  far  hanging  in  heaven's  high  tower 

May  once  have  been  a  drop  oozed  from  a  rose  ! 
Then  if  a  star  is  but  the  essence  of  a  flower, 

Will  not  man,  far  the  greatest  life  earth  grows, 
Live  on  beyond  the  grave  and  find  naught  to  oppose  ?  " 

Again  : 

"  Then  what  's  all  beauty  but  a  tempter's  bait  ? 
It  lures  us  on,  it  leaves  us  all  alone. 
To  muse  upon  the  unforeseen  of  fate — 
We  live  for  what  we  know  not." 
In  contradiction  of  what  has  been  said  of  Mr.   Peacock,  we 
may  say  he  does  not  essay  as  much  as  he  is  capable  of  doing. 
Therefore  those  critics  who  have  unjustly  spoken  of  self-con- 
sciousness and  vanity  in  this  author  little  know  the  man  or 
poet. 

There  is  neither  self-assertion  nor  over-estimation.  He, 
like  most  poets,  talks  of  his  poetry,  is  ambitious  for  a  place 


324  Comments,  Criticisms,  Etc. 

among  the  laurel-crowned,  but  by  no  means  wishes  to  claim 
it  ;  he  would  rather  earn  it,  and  at  all  times  courts  honest 
criticism,  and  not  fulsome,  indiscriminate  praise.  This  is 
merely  a  word  or  two  about  the  Kansas  poet,  and  in  no  sense 
of  the  word  a  review  of  his  book. 

From  the  "  Kansas  City  Review  of  Science  and  In- 
dustry." 
This  is  a  handsomely  printed  volume  by  a  gentleman  of 
Topeka,  who  has  already  acquired  a  fair  reputation  as  a 
writer  of  poetry.  This  reputation  will  be  in  no  wise  lessened 
by  his  latest  effort,  which  contains  many  genuinely  poetic 
fancies  and  lofty  passages.  The  introductory  lines  are  espe- 
cially good,  and  many  of  the  descriptions  of  scenery  and 
character  are  finely  conceived  and  delicately  portrayed. 
Among  these  we  can  only  take  time  to  mention  the  poet  and 
song  which  abounds  in  such  gems. 

From  the  "  St.  Louis  Spirit." 
This  work  is  from  the  author  of  the  "Vendetta,"  and  in 
many  respects  surpasses  that  effusion.  There  are  verses,  and 
plenty  of  them,  in  the  description  of  Ethel,  that  are  not  sur- 
passed anywhere.  They  are  superb.  There  are  dozens  of 
verses  that  would  do  no  discredit  to  any  of  the  ancient  or 
modern  poets. 

Occasionally  the  poet  drops  into  commonplace  descrip- 
tions, but  the  same  may  be  said  of  Byron^  Longfellow,  and 
others. 

We  can  pick  out  scores  of  gems,  real  inspirations,  that 
stamp  the  author  as  no  ordinary  verse-maker.  They  are 
skirmishers  in  the  van  and  types  of  the  great  army  in  the  rear. 

From  C.  G.  Coutant,  in  the  "Topeka  Mail."— Editorial 
Observations,  May  17,  1883. 
Thomas  Brower   Peacock,  the  Kansas  poet,  has   suddenly 
come  to  the  front  by  having  his  poem  of  the  ' '  Border  War  " 
lauded  in  the  Londo7i  Saturday  Review. 


Comments,  Criticisms,  Etc.  325 

This  poem  is  reviewed  at  length  by  this  high  English  au- 
thority, and  it  is  pronounced  worthy  of  more  than  a  passing 
notice. 

Such  treatment  can  hardly  fail  to  make  the  volume  sell, 
and  cause  Kansas  to  feel  proud  of  this  much-lauded  Poet  of 
the  Plains. 

There  are  some  writers  in  the  State  who  have  been  slow 
to  recognize  the  true  worth  of  this  poet,  who  will  now  be 
ready  to  sing  his  praises.  These,  of  course,  Mr.  Peacock  will 
forgive  on  account  of  their  ignorance.  They  will  have  a 
chance  to  learn  something  by  carefully  reading  the  volume 
anew.  They  will  have  a  chance  to  find  out  that  the  value  of 
poetry  does  not  consist  in  sing-song  verse,  but  in  originality 
of  thought  and  depth  of  sentiment.  The  poet  who  dares 
not  go  out  of  the  beaten  path  of  every-day  couplets  will 
never  rise  to  make  a  name  in  the  world. 

If  Mr.  Peacock  will  now  revise  his  poems  they  will  be- 
come popular  the  world  over  ;  and  if  the  advice  of  the  Mail 
is  taken,  our  Peacock,  who  is  now  in  high  feather,  will  set 
about  the  work  at  once.  Shakespeare  says  :  "  There  is  a  tide 
in  the  affairs  of  men,  which,  taken  at  the  flood,  leads  on  to 
fortune."  That  tide  is  now  rising  for  the  Kansas  poet,  and 
if  he  is  true  to  himself  he  can  safely  anchor  in  the  harbor  of 
fame. 

From  the  "  St.  Joseph  Herald." 

"  The  Rhyme  of  ^the  Border  War."  Mr.  Peacock's  prog- 
ress has  been  very  great  since  his  last  volume  appeared. 
The  handsome  and  modest  young  man  has  given  much  time 
to  reading,  and  has  grown  much  in  thought  and  power  of 
expression. 

From  the  "  Leavenworth  Times." 

This  work,  the  fruit  of  the  brain  of  the  Kansas  poet, 
Thomas  Brower  Peacock,  is  one  which  deals  with  Kansas  en- 
tirely, with  the  exception  of  the  period  when  the  guerrilla 
warfare  was  carried  into  the  neighboring  State  of  Missouri. 


326  Comments,  Criticisms,  Etc. 

There  are  many  fine  passages  on  the  book,  and  it  should  meet 
with  a  hearty  reception. 

"  From  the  Pittsburgh  (Pa.)  Telegraph." 

Mr.  Peacock  is  a  gentleman  of  the  finest  poetic  taste  and 
genius  in  the  Far  West,  and  already  has  published  a  volume 
that  has  commanded  the  praise  of  Eastern  journals  and  lit- 
erary periodicals. 

From  Oscar  Wilde's  Letter  to  a  Topeka  Gentleman, 
Published  in  the  "  Capital." 

Topeka  has  a  poet,  which  seems  to  me  a  feather,  perhaps 
I  may  call  it  a  Peacock's  feather,  in  the  city's  cap. 

From  the  "  Topeka  Times." 
"  The    Rhyme    of    the    Border   War."       It    possesses    the 
stamp  of  true   poetic  genius.     There   are  many  passages  of 
much  beauty.     In  the  battle  scene  the  poet  becomes  sublime : 

"  The  fight  goes  on — more  fearful  grows  ; 

Dun  clouds  of  battle  black  the  air  ; 
The  shrieks,  the  groans,  'midst  dying  woes, 

Are  mingled  in  war's  dread  despair. 
The  battle  roars  like  to  the  blast 

That  drives  the  forest  from  the  shore, 
And  thunders  like  the  storm  that  vast 

Sweeps  Hell's  great  dreary  regions  o'er." 

From  the  "  Topeka  Daily  Capital." 

Few  American  poets  have  met  the  recognition  accorded 
our  poet,  Thomas  Brower  Peacock,  by  the  great  English  au- 
thority, the  London  Saturday  Review. 


CRITICAL  COMMENTS  ON  THE  VENDETTA  AND 

OTHER  POEMS. 

First  Edition,  1872  ;  Second  Edition,  1876. 

From  the  "Chicago  Inland  Magazine." 

The  Vendetta  is  a  tragic  romance,  and  the  scenes  and 
characters  are  Corsican.  The  survivor  of  a  family  becomes 
outlawed,  becomes  a  sea-rover,  accomplishes  his  vendetta 
vow,  slays  all  the  opposing  Corsicans,  and  then  voluntarily 
sinks  beneath  the  waves  of  the  sea. 

There  are  many  beautiful  passages  in  this  poem  ;  it  is  emi- 
nently rich  in  description  and  metaphor,  while  here  and  there 
the  inner  life  of  the  actors  crops  out  with  unusual  force. 

It  would  be  impossible  to  do  justice  to  this  poem  by  citing 
any  extracts  we  could  find  space  for,  in  this  brief  article. 

The  poetry  of  Mr.  Peacock,  though  grave  is  not  morbid  ; 
nor  it  it  misanthropic.  There  is,  it  is  true,  now  and  then  a 
quaint  bit  of  mystery,  that  drifts  beyond  the  evolution  theory, 
as  when  in  "  Reverie  "  he  hints  : 

"  That  maiden  fair,  we  see,  with  many  a  charm, 
May  once  have  been  a  pearl  beneath  the  sea." 

But  he  never  makes  the  head  giddy  with  paradox,  nor 
swings  the  heart  upon  a  wild  and  chaotic  tempest  of  doubt 
and  selfishness.  He  deals  not  in  spectres  and  unsocial 
horrors.  He  is  true  to  what  he  feels,  and  right  or  wrong  he 
speaks  it  as  it  is.  He  is  not  bombastic  nor  grovelling,  and  he 
steers  clear  of  intellectual  cant  and  literary  quackery.  There 
is  an  odor  of  freshness  and  originality  in  the  book.  The 
tone  is  highly  moral,  and   there  is  not   a  line  in  these  pages 

327 


328  Comments ^  Criticisms,  Etc. 

that  the  gravest,  purest,  and  noblest  need  blush  to  read. 
There  is  no  gall  nor  wormwood  concealed  along  the  lines,  nor 
is  our  author  always  gay,  light,  and  laughing.  Rewrites  with 
an  enlarged  humanity  ;  he  writes  with  much  insight  into  the 
inner  workings  of  the  human  mind.  He  seldom  draggles  his 
pen  in  the  slough  of  casuistry.  His  intellect  goes  whither  it 
will  ;  he  climbs  the  hills,  races  on  the  plains,  rides  upon  the 
waters  of  the  great  deep,  and  gathers  from  every  element  the 
secret  in  them.  And  now  he  sends  these  creations  of  his 
brain  out  to  be  recognized  and  appreciated.  They  deserve 
from  the  wise  and  the  brave,  from  the  old  man  and  the  maiden, 
the  warmest  welcome.     Gonzails  is  the  outlaw  in  "Vendetta." 

"  But  where  is  he,  Gonzails?  had  he  no  one 
'Midst  all  the  fair  whom  he  could  call  his  own  ? 
Ah,  yes  !  he  loved  and  was  beloved  by  one, 
A  peerless  beauty  of  the  tropical  sun. 
Whose  love  was  pure  as  heaven's  transparent  streams — 
She  loved  him  as  the  poet  loves  his  dreams." 

And  then  again  : 

"  Ah  !  here  's  what  allures,  here  's  what  entices, 
Leads  man  to  virtue  or  deep  into  vices  ; 
Nor  sylph  nor  nymph  more  graceful  than  is  she — 
Fair  Inez,  the  beautiful  '  Pearl  of  the  sea.'  " 

In  "  Reverie  "  the  poet  lets  fly  another  arrow  : 

"  Then  what  's  all  beauty  but  a  tempter's  bait  ? 
It  lures  us  on,  it  leaves  us  all  alone." 

And  this  from  "  A  Secret  of  the  Sea  "  : 

"  Great  bolts  of  thunder  loudly  crashed. 
And  living  lightning  ran  the  sky, 
And  here  and  there  it  angry  flash'd 

Like  some  fierce  demon's  vengeful  eye. 


Cominents,  Criticisms,  Etc.  329 

"  Time  wings  his  constant  flight — now  wan  ; 
The  blast  strays  homeward  o'er  the  deep  ; 
The  weary  clouds  move  slowly  on  ; 
In  his  far  cave  the  storm  doth  sleep." 

The  "Atlantic  Doom  "  contains  some  passages  of  rare  beauty 
and  power,  which  we  cannot  reproduce  in  our  limited  space, 
without  marring  their  fair  proportions.  The  vessel  already 
doomed,  rides  on  into  darkness  : 

"  Descending  Night,  with  visage  dark, 
Drops  her  black  mantle  o'er  the  bark  ; 
And  o'er  time's  pathway  journeys  on." 

Part  first  of  "  Star  of  the  East  "  opens  with  a  scene  in  the 
Turkish  capital.  This  poem  is  perhaps  one  of  the  most  elabo- 
rate in  finish  in  this  volume.  There  are  in  it  many  descriptive 
passages  of  a  very  high  order  of  merit.  Except  the  Vendetta 
it  is  the  very  best  poem  the  author  has  yet  published,  and  one 
of  great  beauty  and  power.  What  more  did  Thomas  Brower 
Peacock  need  than  his  hill-slopes,  dells,  seas,  and  living  beings  ? 
In  the  one  he  finds  the  fulness  of  nature  ;  in  the  other  the 
essentials  of  humanity.  What  if  a  young  poet's  reviewers 
outnumber  his  readers  ?  What  if  some  critics  are  scoffers  ? 
There  are  others  who  bring  him  admiration  unqualified.  Let 
him  stand  unshaken  before  his  detractors,  and  let  him  not  be 
exultant  in  the  homage  of  his  friends.  There  was  a  time 
when  Wordsworth  had  little  else  besides  critics,  and  how  long 
has  it  been  since  the  genius  of  Poe  has  put  his  detractors  to 
silence?  We  close  with  one  more  extract  from  the  "Vendetta," 
and  would  remark  that  we  like  the  poem  better  with  each  suc- 
cessive reading.  It  is  certainly  not  the  production  of  a  mere 
verse-maker  ;  any  one  can  see  that.  It  is  no  mean  order  of 
genius  that  conceived  this  poetic  romance  : 

"  Well  may  they  fear — for  means  the  flash  and  roar 
The  mightiest  elements  are  at  fiercest  war, 
The  angry  storms  fling  huge  destructive  shafts, 


330  Comments^  Criticisms ^  Etc. 

In  deepest  scorn  each  warrior  hoarsely  laughs, 
And  marshall'd  far  around  in  densest  crowds, 
Live  thunders  swiftly  leap  from  clouds  to  clouds. 
Hurling  their  deadly  massive  bolts  afar, 
Hitting  the  very  vault  of  distant  Heaven  ! 
"Which  jars  each  high  hanging  planet  star, 
And  shakes  the  earth  to  its  foundations  even  !  " 

We  are  not  sure  that  we  have  been  wise  in  our  selections 
from  this  author.  We  have  indeed  not  picked  out  the  pearls, 
and  have  not  endeavored  to  put  the  poet's  best  foot  foremost. 
We  have  but  dipped  in  here  and  there  among  the  mass  with 
almost  closed  eyes,  believing,  as  we  did,  that  we  could  not 
easily  produce  anything  without  some  merit.  And  now  that 
we  have  drifted  through  to  the  end,  we  confess  that  we  found 
more  to  admire  than  we  expected  ;  and  that  while  there  are 
faults,  still  the  good  in  them  outweighs  the  errors  ;  and  we 
are  conscious,  too,  that  the  young  poet  whose  inspiration  was 
gathered  upon  the  dead  levels  of  the  Far  West,  has  by  this  work 
of  his  brain  won  a  place  of  no  common  significance  in  the 
galaxy  of  poetic  genius. 

From  Enrique  Parmer,  in  a  Critique  written  in  1877. 

This  man  whose  lips  have  touched  the  rim  of  nature's 
poesy,  who  drifted  without  bluster  into  the  wind-swept  forests 
of  song,  is  young  in  years,  and  his  genius  is  now  stretching 
its  wings  for  its  first  flight.  Thomas  Brower  Peacock  is  gifted 
with  poetic  genius.  The  author  of  "  Vendetta  "  develops  in 
that  effort  alone  evidences  of  all  the  elements  of  the  poet, 
while  in  the  minor  poems,  many  gems  of  purest  ray  flash  out, 
which  foreshadow  the  dawn  of  brighter  imagery  for  the  grand 
thoughts  that  lie  here  and  there  in  the  pages  of  the  book. 
His  poetry  is  thoroughly  human — a  poetry  which  repro- 
duces, as  we  read  it,  all  the  feelings  of  our  wayward  nature — 
which  shows  how  man  was  made  to  mourn,  to  be  merry,  to 
doubt. 


Comments,  Criticisms,  Etc,  331 

The  descriptive  and  the  picturesque  have  a  large  place  in 
his  writings.  A  picture  with  him  is  more  than  the  mere 
drapery  of  a  passion.  The  chivalric  past  has  as  yet  received 
but  little  of  his  veneration.  The  conflicts  of  the  ancient  rival 
factions  have  somewhat  greater  enchantment  than  the  gor- 
geous falsehoods  of  departed  ages,  to  warm  his  fancy  or  to  rule 
his  pen.  He  has  little  to  do  with  rank  or  reverence  except 
when  he  enters  the  pale  of  the  supernatural. 

His  imagery  is  true,  it  is  also  original.  He  meditated  by 
himself,  and  he  studied  the  outward  phenomena  of  nature 
with  strange  enthusiasm  ;  hence  it  is  not  surprising  that  this 
youthful  poet  should  have  enriched  his  mind  'with  truth, 
freshness,  and  originality,  and  that  these  should  appear  in 
imagery  and  description. 

The  reader  will  find  many  beauties,  many  curious  fancies, 
many  strange  pictures  wrought  out  with  marvellous  power. 
He  will  find  wild  romances,  painted  with  a  master  pen,  long 
rolling  verse,  almost  as  good  as  that  of  "  Childe  Harold,''  occa- 
sional bursts  of  inspiration  vivid  as  that  of  Poe  or  Shelley, 
description  as  dignified  and  orthodox  as  that  of  Wordsworth, 
while  many  stanzas  are  as  musical  and  enrapturing  as  Tenny- 
son's "  Locksley  Hall." 

From  Dr.  R.  Shelton  Mackenzie,  in  the  "  Philadelphia 
Press,"  May  9,  1873. 
We  judge  from  the  poems  themselves  that  Mr.  Peacock 
is  a  young  man,  enthusiastic  yet  practical.  "  The  Star  of  the 
East,"  a  Circassian  story,  is  the  best  sustained  poem  in  the 
volume,  and  breathes  of  the  distant  Orient.  "  The  Vendetta," 
with  its  scene  in  Corsica,  is  more  diffuse.  Several  of  the 
minor  effusions  possess  considerable  merit.  Having  formerly 
noticed  Mr.  Peacock's  poems,  we  shall  only  say  that  to  open 
with  "  The  Vendetta,  A  Tragic-Romantic  Poem,  in  Five 
Cantos,"  was  a  bold  step  for  a  young  author.  However, 
*'  nothing  venture,  nothing  have  "  is  a  time-honored  adage,  and 
Mr.  Peacock  evidently  possesses  a  spirit  which,  in  the  words 
of  Othello,  "  makes  ambition  virtue." 


332  Comments,  Criticisms,  Etc. 

The  new  miscellaneous  poems  show  improvement  in  con- 
struction and  a  deeper  and  more  searching  course  of  thought 
than  before.  He  is  evidently  mastering  his  art.  His  rhymes 
are  generally  very  correct,  a  great  point  in  these  days  of 
prevailing  carelessness.  The  only  piece  in  Mr.  Peacock's 
volume  which  we  decidedly  condemn  is  the  last,  entitled 
"  Metaphysical,"  and  its  demerit  is,  the  more  we  read  the  less 
we  understand  it.  Such  is  the  character  of  metaphysics  in 
verse,  even  of  Wordsworth's. 

From  the  "  Pittsburgh  Post,"  Oct.  14,  1876. 
"  The  Vendetta,  and  Other  Poems,"  by  Thomas  Brower 
Peacock.  We  have  before  us  this  work  from  the  pen  of  one 
of  the  most  brilliant  young  writers  of  the  West.  It  is  singu- 
larly free  from  the  crudities  that  so  often  mar  the  productions 
of  young  beginners,  especially  in  the  line  of  versification. 
Mr.  Peacock's  book  is  emphatically  something  more  than 
verse — it  contains  a  great  deal  of  real  poetry,  with  occasional 
bursts  that  equal  Keats  and  Poe  in  their  peculiar  lines  of 
poetical  fancy.  Here  is  a  little  fancy  in  "  Egeria  "  that  is  full 
of  vivid  imagery  : 

"  The  stars  forevermore  enshrined 

In  their  high  homes  far  o'er  the  sea, 
In  their  dear  beauty  me  remind, 
Egeria  !  darling  one,  of  thee." 

"  The  Vendetta,"  which  gives  the  title  to  the  volume,  pos- 
sesses a  great  deal  of  poetic  beauty  and  unusual  force  and 
depth  and  warmth  of  expression.  The  present  volume  is  an 
earnest  of  the  splendid  contnbutions  to  American  literature 
that  Thomas  Brower  Peacock  will  yet  make. 

From  the  "  Detroit  Free  Press." 
The  author  has  paid  less  regard  than  he  might  with  propriety 
have  paid  to  the  recognized  laws  of  versification  ;  but  there 
are  traces  here  and  there  of  real  power  and  poetical  insight. 
"  The  Vendetta,"  the  poem  which  gives  title  to  the  work,  is 
the  largest  and  most  pretentious  in  the  collection. 


Comments^  Criticisms^  Etc.  333 

From  the  "  Chicago  Inter-Ocean." 

This  volume  takes  its  title  from  a  somewhat  ambitious 
effort  founded  upon  the  Corsican  vendetta.  While  it  is 
marred  by  defects,  it  contains  many  line  passages.  "  The 
Star  of  the  East,"  a  metrical  romance,  is  better,  and  the 
minor  efforts  are  best.  Mr.  Peacock  seems  to  possess  a  vivid 
imagination  and  an  easy  command  of  language. 

From  the  "  Utica  (N.  Y.)  Herald,"  June  9,  1876. 

The  opening  poem,  **  The  Vendetta,"  is  a  "  tragic-roman- 
tic poem,"  in  five  cantos  ;  and  while  it  presents  verses  of 
much  beauty,  its  prevailing  tone  is  one  of  such  exuberantly 
sombre  woe  that  it  falls  somewhat  short  of  being  in  complete 
accord  with  the  best  songs  of  the  day.  Some  of  these  poems 
denote  skill  and  true  poetic  refinement. 

From  the  **  Waverley  Magazine,"  Boston,  June  24, 1876. 

We  have  read  some  of  the  poenis,  and  we  are  pleased 
with  the  absence  of  affectation  or  imitation  in  his  diction,  and 
his  thoughts  seem  to  flow  from  a  soul  which  is  full  of  poetic 
fervor. 

From  the  "  New  York  Nation." 

Mr.  Peacock's  poems  are  of  a  high  order  of  merit.  Here 
is  an  apostrophe  to  chastity,  from  his  poem  entitled  "The 
Vendetta  "  : 

"  Thou  Chastity  !  that  long  hath  held 
The  world  in  virtue's  modest  check, 
Man  owes  to  thee,  in  heart,  joy  knell'd, 

For  the  little  pure  saved  from  vice's  wreck — 
Warm  thanks  to  surface  ever  gurgling  up, 
As  o'erflows  nature's  sparkling  chaldron  cup." 

Here  is  a  much  warmer  passage,  taken  from  the  same 
poem,  descriptive  of  the  person  of  the  Countess  Inez  Galvo, 
afterward  mistress  of  the  sea-rover,  Gonzails  : 


334  Comments,  Criticisms,  Etc. 

"  Ah  !  here  's  what  allures,  here  's  what  entices, 
Leads  man  to  virtue  or  deep  into  vices  ; 
Nor  sylph  nor  nymph  more  graceful  than  is  she — 
Fair  Inez,  the  beautiful  '  Pearl  of  the  Sea.'  " 

From  Captain  Henry.  King,  in  the  "  Topeka  Common- 
wealth." 

The  recent  "Atlantic"  disaster  has  inundated  the  news- 
papers with  poems  relating  to  that  terrible  calamity — some 
good,  some  so-so,  and  some  execrable.  Among  the  best  we 
have  seen  is  one  written  by  the  Kansas  poet,  Thomas  Brower 
Peacock.  It  contains  some  fine  word-painting,  and  some 
poetic  imagery  of  original  and  striking  beauty.  Mr.  Peacock 
is  the  author  of  a  small  volume  of  poems,  published  a  few 
months  since,  which  has  received  favorable  mention  in  the 
JVew  York  Nation  and  other  first-class  critical  journals. 

From   Mr.  William    Finn,  in   the  "  Boston   Literary 
World." 

In  one  line — 

"  The  vesper's  chime  and  low  of  kine," 

the  author  has  expressed  what  it  took  Gray  two  to  do  the 
same  : 

"  The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day. 
The  lowing  herd  winds  slowly  o'er  the  lea." 

The  third  verse  brings  to  mind  many  passages  in  Moore,  and 
the  fourth  reminds  us  of  Byron's  Alpine  descriptions,  and  in 
the  fifth  we  have  something  of  the  nature  of  Poe's  "  Raven." 
There  certainly  is  a  multifarious   power  in  these  six  verses. 

From  the  "  Leavenworth  Times." 

We  have  before  us  a  volume  of  poems  from  the  pen  of 
Thomas  Brower  Peacock.  There  are  some  real  poetical 
thoughts  in  the  book.     Perhaps  the  best  thing  in  the  volume 


Comme7its,  Criticisms,  Etc.  335 

is  the  tragical  poem  entitled  "  The  Vendetta."  It  is  founded 
on  the  peculiar  custom  of  retaliation  sanctioned  by  the  relig- 
ious superstitions  of  the  Corsicans,  and  describes  a  bitter  feud 
that  existed  between  two  families,  and  the  part  taken  by  the 
masculine  representatives  of  each  household.  A  love-scene, 
of  course,  is  introduced,  because  there  can  be  no  first-class 
tragedy  without  a  woman. 

The  poet  thus  pictures  the  flow  of  a  stream: 

"  Here  lost  the  mountain  streamlet  strayed. 
Through  meadows  green  and  forest  glade, 
Now  winding  east,  now  winding  west — 
As  fearful  where — which  course  the  best — 
Like  agony  of  thought,  which  love  so  oft  inspires  ; 
A  soul  still  fluttering  'twixt  two  fond  desires." 

From  the  "Kansas  City  Journal  of  Commerce." 

"  The  Vendetta,  and  Other  Poems."  Advance  sheets  of 
this  volume,  which  is  soon  to  appear,  have  been  sent  to  us, 
and,  in  comparison  with  the  former  publication  by  the  same 
author,  show  marked  improvement  and  advancement.  In 
the  higher  aspects  of  the  work  he  has  given  many  evidences 
of  poetic  power.  His  figures  are  well  chosen  and  forcible, 
the  sentiments  are  all  that  could  be  desired  in  elevation  and 
purity,  and  his  conceptions  for  the  most  part  gratifying.  The 
parts  of  the  book  before  us  abound  in  fine  thoughts. 

From  the  "  Topeka  Commonwealth." 

"We  have  been  favored  with  advance  sheets  of  "  The 
Vendetta,  and  Other  Poems,"  by  Thomas  Brower  Peacock,  of 
this  city.  "  The  Vendetta  "  is  the  most  ambitious.  Mr.  Pea- 
cock, unlike  many  other  literary  men,  while  evidently  an  ad- 
mirer of  Byron's  genius,  does  not  suffer  his  moral  sense  to  be 
perverted  by  the  brilliant  wickedness  of  that  great  but  mis- 
guided personage  ;  hence  the  pure  tone  of  all  Mr.  Peacock's 
effusions.  There  is  nothing  in  this  volume  that  might  not  be 
read  aloud  in  any  company.     Next  to  "  The  Vendetta,"  and 


336  Comments,  Criticisms,  Etc. 

quite  equal  to  it  in  merit,  we  think,  is  "  The  Star  of  the 
East,"  the  scenes  of  which  are  laid  in  the  romantic  country, 
Circassia,  and  based,  as  the  author  states  in  his  argument,  on 
well-authenticated  events.  The  minor  poems  comprise  "  Ege- 
ria,"  "  Reverie,"  "  The  Haunted  Lake,"  "The  Close  of  Day," 
"  Vennova,"  and  others.  This  hasty  notice  is  made  after  a 
still  more  hasty  perusal  of  the  work,  and  hardly  does  it  jus- 
tice. We  have,  in  fact,  dwelt  only  on  one  of  its  merits — its 
moral  tone. 

From  John  N.  Edwards,  in  the  "  Kansas  City  Times," 
June  8,  1873. 

"  Poems  by  Thomas  Brower  Peacock  "  is  a  modest  little 
volume  containing  some  real  gems,  both  in  melody  and  ver- 
sification. Upon  the  great  prairies,  drinking  in  such  inspira- 
tion as  came  from  the  isolation  and  solitude  of  their  illimitable 
horizon — from  the  stars  that  people  the  blue  heavens  with 
visions  and  dreams — from  the  longing  and  strivings  the  true 
poetic  nature  ever  feels  when  alone  with  the  night  and  with 
immensity — the  poet  has  created  for  himself  an  ideal  world 
filled  with  the  darlings  of  his  genius  and  his  imagination. 
These  he  has  sent  forth  on  a  mission  of  recognition  and  ap- 
preciation. They  will  be  welcomed  often  and  brought  ten- 
derly into  many  a  pleasant  place. 

From  Richard  Realf,  "  Pittsburgh  Commercial." 

I  have  examined  "  The  Vendetta,  and  Other  Poems."  I 
find  much  to  praise.  The  author,  Thomas  Brower  Peacock, 
unquestionably  possesses  poetical  genius  of  no  common 
order. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

Return  to  desk  from  which  borrowed. 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


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